A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Page 31

  Jupiter’s real name was Zaid al-Menhali. He was ISIS’s chief recruiter in Greece. He had personally drafted two of the Paris terrorists into the fold. Both Mapother and Yatom wanted him dead.

  “He doesn’t seem to watch his back too much,” Mike observed. “You’d think he’d at least change his route. You see anything, Eitan?” he added into the microphone clipped to his collar.

  “Negative,” the Mossad operative replied. Eitan was positioned on his scooter two street corners east of the target. “It’s too early to say for sure though.”

  “Copy that,” Mike said. “Be ready.”

  Next to him, Zima was taking pictures of everyone and every car passing by al-Menhali as he continued his walk toward the embassy.

  With his Schmidt & Bender scope glued to his eye, Mike continued to observe al-Menhali, while Zima and Eitan busied themselves looking for counter-surveillance. Mike remained focused on the target. His feed was being transmitted live to the IMSI headquarters where a bunch of analysts, including Lisa, were assessing al-Menhali’s every move.

  Three angry knocks at the door startled him.

  What the hell? The Do Not Disturb sign should have kept all hotel employees out. Whatever it was, Zima would have to take care of it. He couldn’t afford to lose sight of al-Menhali.

  ........

  Zima had her Beretta in her hands before the third knock. She pulled her cellphone out of her jean’s pocket and scrolled to the application linked to the sticky camera she had positioned across the hallway.

  On the other side of the door was a slim woman, dressed in a summer dress under a white light jacket, her hair up on her head. She wore a scarf around her neck and appeared to be in her twenties.

  “This ain’t funny, damn it! Open the door!” the young woman yelled in English.

  Can’t she read the sign hanging on the doorknob?

  “I said I was sorry, okay? Please open the door,” the woman continued, loud enough that Zima recognized an American accent.

  Wrong room, lady. C’mon, go away.

  Zima’s hopes of a quick resolution evaporated when the woman started banging on the door with both fists.

  “I know you’re there, you piece of shit! Open the goddamn door!”

  The woman gave Zima no choice. Another minute of this and someone would notify hotel security.

  If it’s not already done.

  Zima unlocked the door but kept the security chain in place. She opened the door, just a crack, but it was enough. The foul odor of liquor reached her.

  The woman was drunk.

  “I think you knocked on the wrong room,” Zima started. “I’m with my husband.”

  “You’re with my husband? I knew it! You slut!” The woman took two steps back, clenched her fists, and rushed the door.

  Zima, guessing what was about to happen, had already removed the security chain. She opened the door wide. The drunk woman, expecting to encounter a solid door, almost flew into the room. Zima dropped to the floor and scissored the woman’s legs, bringing her down with a sickening thud as her head hit the floor. Zima kicked the door close and bent next to the limp woman, worry lines wrinkling her forehead.

  Oh shit!

  She checked her pulse. Strong.

  Thank God.

  Keeping a close eye on the unconscious woman, Zima fished a pair of heavy-duty plastic zip ties out of Mike’s backpack. Mike hadn’t moved one inch during the incident. He was still immobile behind his rifle.

  Zima tied the woman’s hands behind her back before doing the same with her ankles. She then grabbed the woman by her feet and dragged her into the bathroom. She searched the woman for clues to her identity. Inside the jacket, she found a California driver’s license, an American Express card, a two-euro coin, but no weapons.

  ........

  Mike sensed Zima next to him. “What happened?”

  “Someone drank too much. I’m calling headquarters to check her out.”

  It had taken Zima less than two minutes to handle the situation. During that time, al-Menhali stayed in the same spot and burn through half a cigarette. In the background, Mike heard Zima talking to someone at headquarters. This incident changed their timing. What were the chances someone had heard the commotion and called security?

  “Her name’s Jane Fonseca. She’s an American, and she and her husband are indeed checked in at this hotel. She had the right room, but one floor too high.”

  “Credit card?”

  “Last processed payment was for a one hundred and ninety euros at a bar nearby.”

  So this was a fluke? How long could they stay in position?

  Not long.

  “Call back Mapother and put him on speaker,” he asked Zima.

  Either Mapother gave them the green light to take down al-Menhali now, or Mike’s next order to his team would be to pack up and leave.

  CHAPTER 3

  New York, New York

  IMSI Headquarters

  Lisa Walton stood up from behind her desk and grimaced as pain shot up her left leg. She sat back down, out of breath. Three months had passed since the shootout in Koltsovo, Russia. Since then, she’d had good days and bad days. Today was one of the latter. Nevertheless, she was grateful to be alive. She shivered as thoughts of the Sheik played with her mind. She tried to block them out, but the smell and taste of his urine always seemed to barge through her defenses. It was a vivid reminder of how close she had come to dying at his hands. She took consolation in knowing that Mike had kicked his ass back in Mykonos, and that the Sheik was now in an underground prison without any chance of seeing the light of day again.

  “You okay, Lisa?” Mapother asked, placing his hand gently on her shoulder.

  “I will be,” she replied. A medical doctor herself, Lisa appreciated how long the human body needed to recuperate from injuries. Wounds from bullets that tore through muscles and ligaments wouldn’t heal overnight. The psychological wounds took even longer.

  It was her third day back in the office. She had jumped at the opportunity to get back to work the moment the doctors cleared her. She had had enough of staying home. And she was worried about Mike. A lot. She had gotten used to being in the field with him. From Africa to Europe to Russia, they had made a great team chasing down the terrorists responsible not only for the death of their unborn child and their two-year-old daughter Melissa, but also for the worst terror attacks since 9/11. Sheik al-Assad—the man who had orchestrated these attacks—had killed their entire family during the first phase of his assault on the North American financial markets two and a half years ago. If it had not been for Mike and a few other heroes, the economic consequences would have been even worse.

  She pushed the unpleasant memories of her time in the Sheik’s captivity out of her mind and focused on the video feed Mike was sending to the main flat screen of the control room.

  “Start cross-referencing today’s feed with yesterday’s,” Mapother said.

  Lisa’s fingers danced over her keyboard. It was difficult not to marvel at the capabilities of the IMSI. Even though the IMSI’s existence was known only to a select few, Mapother’s organization had grown into a redoubtable counter-terrorism force. But the IMSI’s many achievements had been overshadowed by some monumental failures, and Lisa wasn’t sure what would happen after the next presidential election. Mapother had assured her that everything would remain the same, but she wasn’t convinced. Director of National Intelligence Richard Phillips, who had previously been a staunch supporter of the IMSI, was now an unknown player. Lisa could hardly fault him for it. DNI Phillips’s main job after protecting the country was to shield the president from any repercussions caused by the possible implosion of the IMSI. If the IMSI’s true purpose was brought to light, the president’s involvement with the IMSI would be more than enough to get him impeached. Operating under the
cover of a foreign-market analysis center working for nine of the biggest corporations in the United States, the IMSI’s cover was solid but had come under pressure recently when it was discovered that Steve Shamrock—one of the IMSI’s founding members and the CEO of Oil Denatek—had been a traitor and the financier behind the Sheik’s terror network. Charles Mapother had cleaned up the mess, but DNI Phillips had never fully regained his confidence in the organization. But he still called on the IMSI to execute the missions he felt should stay at arm’s length from the United States government.

  “I got something here,” Jonathan Sanchez said, walking into the control room. Sanchez was a close friend of Mike and Lisa and had played a major role in bringing them to the IMSI. A former member of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, he had fought alongside Mike in Serbia during Operation Picnic. A round had shattered his knee and forced him out of the field.

  “What?” Mapother asked.

  Sanchez took a picture out of a blue folder and showed it to Lisa and Mapother.

  “That’s Anja Skov,” he said. “She’s the lady Zaid al-Menhali had lunch with yesterday.”

  Lisa looked at the picture. Anja Skov was strikingly hot. Tall, blond hair, big blue eyes. She could have been a Victoria’s Secret model.

  “What do we know about her?” Lisa asked.

  “She’s the personal secretary of the Danish ambassador.”

  Lisa scratched her head. “Why would he go after her? She seems of little value. Unless she has the ambassador’s ear . . .”

  “You’re right,” Sanchez said. “I doubt her security clearance alone is enough to warrant al-Menhali’s attention. But she’s an activist, and her boss’s brother is an influential member of the Danish parliament.”

  “What do you mean by ‘activist’?” Mapother asked, taking a closer look at the picture.

  “She’s very active on social media,” Sanchez replied. “Mostly on Facebook. She believes the Danish government should do much more to accommodate the Muslim community and she wants it to repeal the 2002 law that made it harder for immigrants to bring their families over.”

  “The Danish Aliens Act,” Mapother said. “I remember when this was voted in. It raised an uproar within the United Nations Human Rights Council—”

  “Really?” Lisa interrupted her boss. “What doesn’t raise an uproar these days?” She wasn’t a big fan of the United Nations. In her opinion, the United Nations had been hijacked by political self-interest and had become a global talkfest. It was too big, consisted of too many endless bodies and committees and was good only at producing thousands of reports that nobody cared about.

  “I don’t disagree with you, Lisa, but that’s not the point, is it?” Mapother said.

  “Didn’t the UN actually come up with a report condoning the Aliens Act just last May?” Sanchez asked.

  Mapother nodded. “So you think she’s in love with him?”

  “He represents everything she’s fighting for,” Sanchez said.

  “And we shouldn’t forget that al-Menhali is a local celebrity within the Muslim community,” Lisa added. “It’s because of his thinly veiled threats of violence that the Greek parliament voted to speed up the taxpayer-funded mosque they’ll build in Athens.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Sanchez asked, looking at Mapother.

  “It doesn’t change anything. At best, she doesn’t know anything about his involvement in the Paris attacks, and, at worst, she’s a minor player.”

  Lisa agreed with this assessment. “If al-Menhali were to die in Athens, I don’t think the Greek authorities would launch an international investigation, but even if they do, we’ll make sure it doesn’t gain any traction.”

  “But if an employee of the Danish embassy is killed, that’s another story. So we stick to the plan and let Mike and Zima take him out at their discretion. She lives,” concluded Mapother.

  That’s it? Did we just decide who lives and who dies? The feeling was frightening and empowering at the same time. In the field, Lisa never had an issue taking down a target. In fact, Mike had recently told her he thought she was a bit too eager to pull the trigger on some occasions.

  She disagreed.

  She had to.

  Telling him the truth would have ruined her chance of getting back in the field.

  “Sir?” This was from Anna Caprini. She was holding a phone against her ear. “Mike says you either give him the green light on al-Menhali now or he pulls the plug.”

  “Why? Did I miss something?” Mapother asked.

  Lisa wondered the same.

  Caprini continued, “A drunk crashed their party at the Grande Bretagne.”

  Lisa swore under her breath. She looked at Mapother. He was the one calling the shots, and he didn’t delay in making his decision known.

  “Execute.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Royal Canadian Mounted Police Headquarters

  Ottawa, Canada

  RCMP Sergeant Khalid al-Fadhi strolled into the briefing room and waved to Corporal Mason Quinn who was chatting with Superintendent Serge Caron, the officer in charge of the prime minister’s protective detail. As always so early in the morning, the briefing room smelled of coffee and burnt toast. Most officers preferred to eat their breakfast at work with their peers rather than alone at their residence while the rest of their family was asleep. Al-Fadhi often did the same, but the knot in his stomach told him it wasn’t a good idea to force anything down this morning. Instead, he poured himself a coffee and added two packets of sugar. He looked for a stirrer but couldn’t locate one, except for dirty ones in the small garbage bin next to the coffee table.

  “Looking for one of these?” asked Superintendent Caron, holding a stirrer in his hand.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Saw the pictures you posted on your Facebook page,” Caron continued. “One hell of a catch that rainbow trout.”

  “The biggest I ever caught,” al-Fadhi replied.

  “What lure did you use?”

  Al-Fadhi was momentarily caught by surprise and his mind raced to remember what he had read about the subject. A lure? He didn’t know anything about fishing. Fishing was only a pretext he used to leave the house to prepare his extra-curricular activities. It wasn’t even him who had posted the picture on Facebook. Someone far away did that for him. Aware that Caron was a hardcore fisherman, he had to tread carefully.

  “I used an orange floating trout worm,” he finally said.

  “Really? I heard about those orange ones but never tried one myself. We should get together sometime. Maybe you could show me where your best spots are?”

  “That’d be fun.” Al-Fadhi smiled.

  “All right then.” Caron looked at his watch. “Drink up. We’ll start the briefing in two. You’re the PSO for this morning’s move. Are you ready for this?”

  Al-Fadhi’s heart skipped. He couldn’t believe it. The officer in charge of the prime minister’s protective detail had just entrusted him with the most vital position. The personal security officer—or PSO—was in charge of the whole protective detail while in the field. He had authority over all the bodyguards and the other officers attached to the four-car motorcade. During a road movement, the PSO sat in the passenger seat of the armored limousine carrying the prime minister. Wherever the prime minister went, the PSO went. Al-Fadhi hadn’t expected to be trusted in this position so soon after his promotion. His hard work and dedication had finally paid off. And just at the right time. It would make everything so much easier.

  “So?”

  Al-Fadhi realized he hadn’t responded to his boss.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Caron nodded and slapped him on the shoulder before taking his position at the head of the huge table in the middle of the briefing room.

  Al-Fadhi had always
known he was going to be called upon. In fact, his whole life had been dedicated to the successful completion of the mission Ayatollah Khomeini had entrusted to his father more than three decades ago. As committed as he was to his task, it wouldn’t be easy. He had never loved his wife, but he had come to love his twin boys. They’d never understand what their father was about to do, and that bothered him. Still, he was a soldier of Iran, and a soldier of God. He would do his sacred duty. Whatever the cost.

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