A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Page 3

  The minivan moved. Denis turned right onto 2nd Avenue. “Where to?” he asked.

  “There’s a safe house in Newark.” He gave Denis directions. “We’ll debrief there.”

  Manhattan traffic notwithstanding, the eighteen-mile ride to the safe house was uneventful. Igor wasn’t surprised. He was confident the police would treat what happened at Grand Central as a criminal act rather than a terrorist attack. And that made sense. Only a handful of people would know that this was a direct attack on the United State’s security apparatus. He doubted the IMSI—an organization that didn’t even belong to the government—would go public with this. Nobody knew who they were and Charles Mapother wasn’t about to put this in jeopardy by helping the police. No, Igor thought, they’d get their friend DNI Richard Phillips to put a lid on this.

  When the van turned into the safe house’s driveway, Igor stowed the Dragunov back in its hard case. The safe house was a nondescript dwelling in an even more nondescript, blue-collar community where neighbors knew to mind their own business.

  “Stay in the car,” he instructed Denis as he slid a backpack over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know when I want you to come in. I need to make a phone call. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Denis replied.

  ........

  Igor punched the code to disarm the alarm. The house hadn’t seen an occupant in weeks and it showed. A lawn contractor had been hired to do the maintenance around the house but the interior was in poor repair. A musty smell and dusty furniture was the price to pay when you wanted a safe house to remain secured in a hostile foreign country. Unlike most safe houses he had stayed at in recent years, this one didn’t belong to any of the shell companies used by the Russian government. No, this one was part of his father’s network.

  Igor opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He drank half of it before setting it on the kitchen table. From his backpack he removed three different burn phones, a wireless audio receiver, two pairs of zip ties and a PSS silent pistol with two magazines. He loved the PSS. It was the perfect weapon for a silent, close-up kill. Before making his phone call, he needed to confirm his suspicions. He turned on the audio receiver and plugged in a pair of earphones.

  ........

  Inside the van Denis was struggling. He should have contacted his FBI handler the moment he’d received Moscow’s instructions two days before. That was expected of him. That didn’t make it easy. He still had regrets about how easily he had been turned, how his personal well-being had taken precedence over his mission and his country. He had not been trapped; he had crossed over to his country’s enemies for money. For greed. And to feed his gambling addiction.

  But there was something about this GRU operative that scared him shitless. He didn’t know why, but the operative didn’t trust him. Denis had worked with this type before. They were arrogant, sure of themselves and dangerous. Does he know? Had he waited too long to sound the alarm when the three cops showed up on 44th Street? That thought forced him into action and he made the call.

  “Lucie’s bakery.”

  “This is Tony Twardorsky,” Denis said, his hand becoming moist. “I’d like to leave a message for Mr. Dubois.”

  “Go ahead,” replied the voice at the other end.

  “I’m calling you from my wife’s phone. I have no idea where mine is,” Denis said. “I was wondering if Mr. Dubois would be kind enough to search for it?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Twardorsky. Is the matter urgent?”

  “Kind of.”

  “I see. Do you remember the last time you saw your phone?”

  “In Newark. At a friend’s house.”

  “That is helpful. Thank you, Mr. Twardorsky. We’ll put a rush on this.”

  “Please do,” Denis replied. Beads of perspiration had formed on his upper lip.

  ........

  Igor Votyakov removed his earphones. He had heard enough. He looked at his watch and set the timer. He had less than ten minutes to get out of there. And there was much to do. He slipped the PSS in his coat pocket and walked out of the house. He signaled Denis to come in.

  “Shouldn’t we bring the rifle inside?” Denis asked.

  “It’s secured in its case and we won’t be inside for long. There’s something I want to show you,” Igor replied, closing the door behind them.

  “Sure.”

  “Kitchen’s this way,” Igor said.

  As Denis walked past him, Igor slid his arm under his chin and pulled him close. Hard. So hard that, for an instant, Denis’ feet actually left the ground. Igor didn’t say anything. He simply started choking, counted to six in his head, and then slightly relaxed his hold.

  “Do I have your attention?” he whispered in Denis’s ear.

  Denis nodded but nevertheless kicked back, the sole of his shoe connecting with Igor’s tibia. Pain shot through Igor’s lower leg. Enraged, Igor responded by flipping Denis around and delivering a powerful punch to his solar plexus, followed by a left hook that landed on his temple. Denis’s knees buckled under him, but Igor wasn’t through. He pulled Denis by the hair and forced him into one of the dining table chairs, where he used the zip ties to secure him.

  “Who’s Mr. Dubois?”

  “Who?”

  Igor punched Denis directly on the nose and felt the bones shatter on impact. The effect was so rewarding that he did it again. And again, and again, while visions of his dead brother flashed in his mind. He only stopped once Denis’ face was a gruesome mess of flesh and blood. Igor drank the rest of his water then looked at Denis. His chest was still moving but his breathing had become erratic.

  “I despise you,” he spat. “I can’t stand traitors. But you already knew that, yes?”

  Without further ceremony, Igor removed the PSS from his pocket and put a bullet in Denis’s forehead. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and used a dishcloth to dry them off. He inserted a battery in one of the burn phones and punched in his father’s number.

  “What happened?” Igor’s father said. “It’s all over the news.”

  “Zakhar’s dead.”

  There was a pause at the other end. “What about our target?” his father finally asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Another pause. “Get out of there. I need you in Damascus.”

  “The Newark safe house is burned. You can’t use it anymore.”

  “I see.”

  “Denis was a traitor. I dealt with him,” Igor said, looking at the lifeless body of Denis.

  “Then there’s no time to waste, son,” his father said. “I can’t afford to lose you too. As I said, I need you in Damascus.”

  “I’ll go.” Once I make sure Charles Mapother’s dead.

  “Not tomorrow. Not when you’re ready. Now,” his father insisted.

  When Igor didn’t reply right away, his father added, “I know what you’re thinking. We’ll have another shot at him. Trust me.”

  “Okay.”

  Father or not, the Sheik wasn’t someone you said no to twice.

  CHAPTER 6

  Biopreparat research facility, Koltsovo, Russia

  Tired of the screams escaping from her test subjects, Dr. Lidiya Votyakov had unplugged the speakers from her computer weeks ago. But even without sound, she was mesmerized by the video feed coming through her computer screen.

  Can this be it?

  During her ten-year tenure as the head of the Biopreparat Koltsovo Facility, she’d never seen anything so fascinating. There could be no doubt; subject 131 was in agony. His body thrashed against the restraints used to keep him immobile on the iron bed. Subject 131 was different from the 130 before him. He was tougher, stronger, and, for a moment, Dr. Votyakov feared he would break free. An impossible task, really. Nobody escaped from this part of the complex. Even if he did break free of the steel
braces locked tightly around his wrists and ankles, there was nowhere for him to go. In addition to the army regiment guarding the complex, former Spetsnaz troops, now working private security, patrolled the building and its surrounding neighborhoods to detect any suspicious activities.

  At fifty-nine, Dr. Votyakov had been the head of the Biopreparat Koltsovo Facility for just over a decade. Cigarettes and stress had deepened the wrinkles around her eyes and her once bright blond hair was now a strange, yellowish color. But her mind remained sharp.

  Most western intelligence agencies thought Biopreparat, the former Soviet Union’s biological warfare agency responsible for the research and the production of pathogenic weapons, had been officially closed in the mid nineties. They were right, officially. But like everything else in Russia, things weren’t always as they appeared. A skeleton crew, a fraction of the fifty thousand former employees of Biopreparat, had remained employed and had continued to look for the perfect bio-weapon. And one month ago, Dr. Lidiya Votyakov had found it. Or so she thought.

  “The incubation period of the virus is exactly the length we’ve been hoping for,” Dr. Yegor Galkin said, standing behind her and looking at the same video feed. Wearing his glasses low on his nose, he nervously pushed them back higher with his index finger. Older than Votyakov by at least a decade, Galkin was one of the few remaining scientists who’d been with Biopreparat since the glory days of the late seventies.

  “I know,” Votyakov replied.

  “Congratulations, Doctor,” Galkin said. “You did it.”

  “We’re not done, yet, Dr. Galkin. We’ll need to confirm our results with subjects 132 and 133.”

  “Of course, Doctor Votyakov, but I don’t foresee a different outcome.”

  Votyakov allowed herself a rare smile. Blood was now pouring from subject 131’s nose and ears at an alarming rate. She didn’t enjoy seeing other humans suffer. She wasn’t a sadistic person but, as a scientist, she appreciated what she had accomplished.

  “How long do you think he has?” she asked.

  “Hard to say.” Galkin scratched his head. “Less than ten hours, I’d say.”

  Votyakov closed her eyes. Finally.

  “I’ve been summoned to the Kremlin two days from now,” Votyakov said, standing up. “And, for once, I’ll be the bearer of good news.”

  CHAPTER 7

  IMSI Headquarters, New York.

  Mike Walton had spent the last twenty minutes on the phone briefing Charles Mapother on what happened on East 44th Street. He left out the part where he hadn’t been able to get up to render assistance to the NYPD officers. At the end of the call, Mapother had requested his presence at IMSI headquarters. News regarding Sam Turner’s condition wasn’t good. He was still in surgery.

  Mike drove his Volvo S80 right up to the ten-foot-high chain-link fence that surrounded IMSI headquarters at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. A few seconds later, a double gate opened and Mike slowly drove forward. Beyond the gate were dozens of concrete wall panels that had been aligned on each side of the road, forcing any vehicles entering the premises to follow a single, preapproved route that led to another gate—this one made of steel—and a security checkpoint.

  A man in a dark security guard’s uniform and sporting an MP5 approached the vehicle. Mike lowered his window.

  “Good evening, Mr. Walton.”

  “Good evening,” Mike replied, his eyes moving to the passenger-side window where another security guard was peeking inside his vehicle with a flashlight. Another guard, this one holding a German Shepherd on a short leash, had taken position behind the vehicle.

  “Open the trunk, would you?” the guard asked.

  Mike obliged. With word of the attempt on the director’s life, the guards were understandably on edge. Once satisfied Mike wasn’t carrying anyone in his trunk, the guard signaled someone inside the guard hut. The steel gate rose slowly and Mike moved forward. Just beyond the gate stood a medium-sized concrete building with no windows. Multiple antennas of difference sizes could be seen on its rooftop. Mike maneuvered the Volvo down a ramp leading to the only entrance of the building, a large, solid, double-garage door. He parked in his assigned space and walked to a steel door with no handle. He swiped his ID card in a small black electronic keypad and entered his seven-digit code. The door opened with a soft click and Mike started down the long, marble-floored hallway. He passed many abutting hallways, each lined with a series of black doors—none of them had knobs or handles, just keypads—and continued until he reached a large brown door. He once again entered his seven-digit code and the door opened, revealing a spacious conference room.

  Already seated around the large table were IMSI director Charles Mapother, IMSI second-in-command Jonathan Sanchez, IMSI asset Zima Bernbaum and the IMSI’s chief analyst—an attractive, black-haired woman in her thirties named Anna Caprini.

  “Any developments for Sam?” Mike asked, holding his breath.

  “Nothing,” Mapother replied with steel in his voice. “As you know, he was hit three times. The first two rounds lodged in his gut while the third shattered his femur. Lots of blood loss. It’s complicated.”

  Mike sighed. Gut wounds were the most painful, but often enough weren’t fatal. Sam Turner had a chance.

  “Lisa’s with him, Mike,” Sanchez said.

  “Why aren’t we all?” Mike asked. “What are we doing here? We—”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Mike?” Mapother roared. “You think it makes me happy to be here while he’s under the knife?”

  Mike was taken aback. He’d never heard Mapother raise his voice before. Before he could muster a reply, Mapother continued in a more reasonable tone, “I owe Sam my life. Without him, I would be the one with three holes in me.”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me, Mike,” Mapother said. “We all feel the same, but we need to move on. The existence of this organization might depend on what we do next.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mapother turned to Sanchez. “Would you mind explaining to Mike what we’ve been through?”

  “We believe the IMSI may have lost part of its cover,” Sanchez said. “The good news is that we’re confident the leak didn’t come from within the Institute.”

  Mike certainly hoped so. He knew Charles Mapother had handpicked all the employees because of their excellence in their respective fields and their loyalty to their country. All of them, without exception, were former law enforcement officers or military personnel.

  “That’s only true if you don’t consider Steve Shamrock part of the IMSI,” Mike said.

  “He was never one of us,” Mapother said. “He helped finance the whole thing but he had no access to the intelligence we collected or the operations we conducted. Only the president has unlimited access.”

  “But did Shamrock know who you are?” Zima asked.

  “He did. He and the other two financiers recruited me to head the IMSI,” Mapother answered. “But the only people outside this organization who know of our existence are Director of National Intelligence Richard Phillips and the president. That’s it.”

  “May I continue?” Sanchez asked.

  Mapother signaled that he could.

  “We have no idea for sure how deep the penetration is inside the IMSI. Having said that, Anna and Jonathan are confident they were only able to scratch the surface.”

  “Why are you so sure?” Mike asked, pouring himself a glass of water from the carafe.

  “Our cover goes pretty deep,” Sanchez answered. “As you know, the IMSI does extensive foreign-market analyses for real clients. It has good revenue and pays its taxes on time. If the opposition had anything substantial against us, Anna and I believe this information would have been leaked to the media.”

  Mike pondered what his friend had said. It made sense. The IMSI’s cover was everything.
Especially when it came to the identity of its assets in the field. That thought brought him to his next question. “What happened at the Grand Central? Who’s in charge of the situation?”

  “Homeland Security took over the NYPD investigation, including the murder of one of their own.”

  “Really? I’m surprised the NYPD agreed to this. That’s their jurisdiction,” Mike said. As a former cop he knew how bitter turf wars could be.

  “DNI Phillips can be persuasive when he wants to be,” replied Mapother. “And you should know the Homeland team is actually a joint taskforce that includes more than one detective from the NYPD.”

  “I guess that softened the blow,” Mike said.

  Mapother’s phone started vibrating on the table. He picked up. Nobody spoke while Mapother listened. “Thank you, Lisa,” he said after a few seconds.

  Mapother pinched his nose and Mike realized he’d been holding his breath for the last half minute. When the IMSI director looked up, his eyes were tearing up.

  “Sam Turner didn’t make it. He died on the operating table.” With that said, and without another word, Charles Mapother walked out of the conference room.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Walton’s Penthouse, Brooklyn, NY

  Mike studied the instruction manual for the espresso machine Lisa had bought the week before. They’d both been so busy the last few days that the coffee machine had remained packed in its box until tonight.

  “Just put milk in the plastic container, plug in the machine, and press the damn button, Mike,” his wife said from the comfort of their living room. “It shouldn’t be too complicated.”

  “You forgot the capsule, Lisa,” Mike replied. “Without the capsule, there’s no coffee.”

  They’d bought the penthouse three weeks after he’d been discharged from the Johns Hopkins Hospital following the Ottawa terror attacks. Financially speaking, the purchase made sense. In the last year or so, the value had gone up more than five percent. But what Mike loved the most about their place was the fact that they were close to IMSI headquarters. A short commute to work was one of the secret keys to happiness.