A Red Dotted Line (Mike Walton Book 2) Page 5

  What came next had startled Mike like nothing before. After only a couple weeks of training, it became obvious that his wife, the most caring and loving person he’d ever known, was a natural-born killer. Not only did she successfully pass all the challenges and training scenarios thrown at her, she also managed to impress the cadre of instructors.

  Be that as it may, tragedy hit again a few days after the end of their training. Lisa, on their first mission together, was stabbed twice while fighting a suicide bomber at the Nice international airport. While she was recuperating from her wounds, Mike was sent to Antibes to follow up on a lead. Embedded with a French special operations team from the GIGN, Mike had witnessed the merciless killings of a number of French law-enforcement officers, including their commanding officer, by terrorists belonging to the Sheik’s network. Mike had no choice but to take command of the GIGN team and pushed through with the assault. What the surviving members of the assault force found in the dwelling occupied by the terrorists had stunned them all: a small tactical nuclear device only seconds away from being detonated in the heart of the French Riviera.

  Upon his return to New York City, Mike had reconnected with his wife and had made peace with the fact that Lisa was now a fully fledged IMSI asset. He took comfort knowing that she’d be with him most of the time and that she’d been trained by the best. Unfortunately, as hard as it was to admit, all this had taken a hard swing at his psyche. He started having sporadic panic attacks. At first they were mild, but following the fiasco in Spain, the severity of his attacks had spiked.

  No way I’m admitting this to Mapother. He’ll pull me out of active duty and send Lisa in the field by herself.

  Mike’s mind wandered to Benalmadena, Spain, where he had led an ad hoc team of three on a raid on the Sheik’s yacht. Thinking that his father, who’d been kidnapped by the Sheik two years prior, was on the yacht, Mike had rushed the assault and Jasmine Carson, an IMSI support team member, was killed in the process. Although the team had killed two of the most sought-after terrorists, neither the Sheik nor Mike’s father had been on the yacht at the time. And, to make matters worse, a lead the IMSI had received about his father’s whereabouts only a few days after the raid in Benalmadena had run cold.

  Mapother’s voice brought Mike back to reality. “I know you’re blaming yourself for Jasmine’s death,” he said. “I’ve read your after-action report.”

  Just the mention of Jasmine Carson sent his heart into palpitations. “I’m not looking for your sympathy, Charles,” Mike said, louder than he intended. “I know what I’ve done. I’m mission-ready for Christ’s sake!”

  For a moment, the IMSI director remained silent and Mike feared he had crossed the line.

  “All right,” Mapother said, playing with his espresso cup. “Back to Dr. Galkin, then.”

  Mike, glad to change the subject, breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You were saying that a friend of yours at the FBI contacted you,” Mike offered.

  “Right,” Mapother said. “What you have to understand here, Mike, is that I’ve always believed that Dr. Galkin knew what he was getting into when he fell for the honey trap.”

  Mike chuckled. “Yeah, I guess he did.”

  Mapother offered a smile. “That didn’t sound right, did it?” he said, before continuing. “What I meant was that even though he displayed all the outrage and denial expected from someone caught in this kind of scheme, there was something that didn’t feel right.”

  “Like what?” Mike asked.

  “It felt like . . .” Mapother hesitated. “It felt as if it was all part of a show.”

  “You think he wanted to deceive you? That maybe his mission was to give you bad intelligence?” Mike said.

  Mapother drained the rest of his espresso and carefully replaced his silver spoon in his cup, and the cup in the saucer, before continuing, “At the beginning, that’s what I thought. But not for long. It turned out that Dr. Galkin was the real deal and not a big fan of the Communist party. He might have been one of the privileged individuals of a totalitarian regime, but his sister wasn’t, and when the same government he was working for sent her to prison for an article she wrote on the lack of funding in education, he became disillusioned.”

  “I get it,” Mike said. “His original behavior was so as not to make you suspicious. He didn’t want you to think he was a spy sent to give you disinformation.”

  “Exactly,” Mapother said. “Dr. Galkin is a scientist, and a damn good one. But he isn’t a spy. He didn’t know how to approach us. He did it the only way he knew how.”

  “By tasting the honey trap,” Mike said, suppressing a smile.

  “The last time I spoke to Dr. Galkin, some twenty-five years ago, he told me that cheating on his wife had been the most difficult thing he had ever done.”

  Mike nodded that he understood before asking, “You didn’t talk to him for twenty-five years?”

  “Dr. Galkin saw that the Soviet Union was about to collapse. Paranoia was running high everywhere and he didn’t want to take unnecessary risks.”

  “I see,” Mike said, unconvinced. “What did he want with you after so many years?”

  “He had information he wanted to share with me. Information so mindboggling that he couldn’t trust it with anyone he didn’t know.”

  “I’m all ears, Charles,” Mike said.

  Mapother reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper folded in two. He handed it to Mike. “Read this.”

  Mike did. “That can’t be true,” he said, his eyes moving from the note back to Mapother. “How do you know he isn’t dead? How do you know it’s him?”

  “I don’t, Mike,” Mapother said. “That’s why you and Lisa are going to Russia. And here’s how we’re gonna do this . . .”

  CHAPTER 10

  Moscow, Russia

  Dr. Lidiya Votyakov saw Victor, the FSB agent assigned to her during her visits to Moscow, waiting by the luggage carrousel. Bald headed and six feet four inches tall, he was hard to miss. She smiled at him but he simply nodded back. Victor was a man of few words and he didn’t offer to carry her suitcase. He led her to a black Mercedes S-Class idling at the curb. Moments before they reached the vehicle, Votyakov felt one of Victor’s powerful hands on her right shoulder as he placed himself between her and a middle-aged lady who had just gone flying in the air after slipping on a patch of ice. Votyakov heard the woman grunt as she fell on the cold pavement. Before she could render assistance, Victor opened the back door of the Mercedes and shoved her in. Poor lady. I hope she didn’t break a bone.

  In sharp contrast to the crisp, chilly Moscow air, the interior of the Mercedes was like a sauna. “Would you mind turning the heater down a little?” she asked.

  “My apologies, Dr. Votyakov,” the driver said as Victor settled into the passenger seat seconds later. “It’s not functioning properly, I’m afraid. We’ll get that fixed right after we drop you at the Kremlin.”

  “Please do. This is unbearable.”

  The driver activated the blue emergency lights of the Mercedes and merged into the exit ramp, cutting off a taxi in the process.

  It was Votyakov’s fourth trip to Moscow in so many months and she could barely contain her excitement. She’d been given six months, and an unlimited budget, to create the perfect biological agent.

  And I did it in four.

  What she had created wasn’t pretty. It wouldn’t cure cancer and it wouldn’t make the world a better place. Quite the contrary.

  Nevertheless, Votyakov was proud of what she had accomplished. If used properly, her discovery would bring back the balance of power between Russia and the West. Like most scientists, she had dreamed about making research contributions that would help develop gene therapy cures for people infected with HIV or different types of cancer. But that wasn’t to be the case. And she didn’t mind one bit.


  With my help, Russia will be great again.

  CHAPTER 11

  Moscow, Russia

  Luc Walker strolled casually to the end of the line. In front of him were a dozen people waiting for a taxi. Like most of them, Walker was heavily dressed. Wearing a scarf covering half his face and a tuque low on his forehead didn’t seem inappropriate in this inclement weather. Only his nose and eyes were visible. A picture taken from the right angle and run through a biometric program could identify him, but he wasn’t worried. A Google search on Luc Walker would bring up many articles about how efficient he was at brokering deals between his wealthy North American clients and Russian vodka makers. A sharper than normal Russian customs officer, who called to verify his story with vodka producers, would be told that Walker was the real deal and a man with much influence in some close circles, both in Moscow and New York. What Google wouldn’t say, though, was that courtesy of a tip provided by a covert organization named the International Market Stabilization Institute, Luc Walker had been arrested three days ago in San Francisco for tax evasion as he was boarding a plane to The Bahamas. The backstop identity wouldn’t be enough to sustain a thorough investigation, like the one the Russian police do when they arrest a foreigner, but Mike Walton wasn’t planning on getting arrested.

  ........

  The window of opportunity was so small that anything from bad weather to a mechanical problem with any of their flights could have caused the mission to fail before it had even begun. Prior to embarking on their first flight, Mike and Lisa had spent a full day preparing for their assignment. Neither of them spoke Russian fluently, but if everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t need to.

  “Got her,” mumbled Mike into the small mic attached to his collar. The encrypted radio they used to communicate with each other was voice activated so there was no need to press a button in order to transmit. “She has a bodyguard. Tall man with a black coat. He’s a few feet behind her.” Mike angled his body toward the Russian doctor and her escort. The miniature camera installed in lieu of one of his parka’s buttons provided a video feed that was instantly broadcast to the control room of IMSI headquarters in New York.

  “It has to be Dr. Votyakov,” Charles Mapother said from New York. Because of the encryption used, Mapother’s voice sounded robotic in Mike’s earpiece. “So far, Dr. Galkin’s words have held true.”

  “She’s heading toward a black Mercedes parked at the curb,” Mike said, scanning his surroundings.

  “I see her,” Lisa said. “I’m twenty seconds away.”

  “There’s no way you’ll be able to plant the device on the target, Lisa,” Mike said. “Don’t risk it. Abort.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mike. Trust me.”

  Mike’s eyes stopped on an older lady pulling her carry-on behind her. She was walking slowly in the direction of the Mercedes.

  “Ten seconds,” Lisa’s voice announced.

  Mike knew his wife was committed. There was no turning back now. His hand moved to the inside pocket of his parka where his Smith & Wesson M&P Shield was concealed.

  C’mon, Lisa. We have only one shot at this.

  As if she had slipped on a patch of ice, the old lady tumbled to the ground next to the Mercedes. The Russian giant walking next to Dr. Votyakov reacted instantly and placed himself between the fallen lady and his charge. Mike’s heart skipped a beat when he realized the old lady wasn’t getting up. With the cold butt of his compact pistol in the palm of his hand, Mike took a few steps toward the fallen woman.

  Seconds later, once Dr. Votyakov had been safely hurried into the waiting car, the Russian bodyguard approached the old lady and offered his hand. With what seemed to be a lot of pain, the old lady slowly got back to her feet. She thanked the tall Russian in his language before picking up her carry-on and continuing on her way.

  Mike relaxed and his hand came out of his parka.

  “You’re okay, Lisa? You fell hard.”

  “I’m fine, Mike.”

  “Don’t worry about the tracker, we’ll find another way,” Mike said, already walking to their car, which was parked in the short-term parking garage. In fact, he had no idea what to do next.

  “The device is on the bodyguard’s coat. We’re good.”

  Well done, baby. Well done.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Kremlin, Russia

  Dr. Lidiya Votyakov looked out the window of the Mercedes. A blast of polar air had gripped Moscow, forcing people to pull their hoods and scarves tight in an effort to protect exposed skin from nearly instant frostbite. The snow made the road slippery and Votyakov was glad she wasn’t driving in these conditions. Due to a major collision involving a school bus, the usual sixty-minute drive from the Domodedovo International Airport to Moscow had turned into a three-hour ordeal.

  “You’re going directly to the Kremlin, Dr. Votyakov,” Victor said from the passenger seat. “We don’t have the time to stop by the hotel.”

  He didn’t need to explain further. They were late, and the Russian president wasn’t the type of man you kept waiting. Votyakov reached for her purse and the emergency makeup kit she kept for exactly these kinds of situations. Her heart fluttered at the sight of her reflection. She angled the mirror differently but the result was the same; the last four months hadn’t been kind to her. She did the best she could with what she had, but the makeup couldn’t hide that she’d be sixty in a few months. She snapped shut the pocket mirror and put it back in her purse with a sigh.

  I was pretty, once.

  The traffic had once again moved to a crawl and Votyakov could see that Victor was becoming more agitated.

  “Not your fault if the traffic is backed up, Victor,” she said.

  Victor grunted a reply she didn’t understand.

  Four months ago, she’d been beckoned to the Kremlin for the first time. A major general from the Ministry of Defense had called her at home and requested her presence in Moscow. Even though she didn’t answer to him, or to anyone else in the military for that matter, she needed to keep a good working relationship between Biopreparat and the Ministry of Defense. The next morning, a young army captain had picked her up from her office in Koltsovo and driven her to the airport. Waiting for her in Moscow was Victor the Giant. He’d been polite, as he was now, but not much of a talker. Not knowing why she’d been called to Moscow, she’d tried to prod some information out of him. Victor had simply kept his mouth shut, not even acknowledging her questions. Not used to this sort of treatment, she’d raised her voice. When that failed too, she had told him she would complain to his superior officer. That had made him and the driver laugh.

  “You’ll complain to Veniamin Simonich?”

  “Your superior officer is the Russian president?” she had asked incredulously.

  “Da.”

  Not sure if he was pulling her leg or not, she’d stopped bitching. She didn’t want to piss off the most powerful man in Russia, let alone someone who could shut off her funding.

  ........

  The black Mercedes pulled up in front of the Kremlin Grand Palace twenty minutes later. Exiting the Mercedes, she took a moment to look at the sky. White snowflakes cascaded from above and melted on her exposed cheeks as she took in a few deep breaths. The cold air entered her lungs and she felt instantly revitalized. She followed Victor up the stairs and into the palace. It might have been her fourth time at the palace but she gasped nonetheless. With its one hundred-and-twenty-five-meter façade, decorated with carved white stones, it was simply grand. Formerly the tsar’s Moscow residence, the Kremlin Grand Palace had been built to emphasize the greatness of Russian autocracy.

  Who would have thought a peasant girl, born in an obscure part of Russia, would have reached the highest echelon of her country’s scientific circles? Dad would be proud of me.

  Her father, a sailor in the Russian Navy, oft
en deployed at sea for months at a time, had missed most of her birthdays and school plays. Still, he had loved her in his own way; and her mother, a marine biologist, had made sure that school had remained her number one priority. After graduating from the Moscow State University with a degree in biology, she’d joined Biopreparat as a junior biologist. A quick intellect and a sense of self-preservation had seen to her selection to graduate studies. After a masters in biochemistry and a doctorate in virology, she’d returned to Biopreparat as a fully fledged scientist. From there, her ascent to the pinnacle of the Russian scientific field had come easily. Her sons, Igor and Zakhar, born from a short but passionate relationship with the son of a powerful sheik from the Emirates, were the only family members she had left. Not that she saw them much.

  Security inside the Kremlin Grand Palace consisted of heavily armed men in black uniforms with a variety of high-tech security measures similar to those found in an international airport.

  Victor bypassed security but she had to go through a metal detector and a biometric retina control while her shoes and purse went through an X-ray machine. After a final quick but comprehensive hand search, she was let through. Grabbing her purse and low-heeled shoes from a gray bin, she walked to Victor who stood next to the waiting elevator that would take her to the third floor where Veniamin Simonich’s office was located.

  “You’ve done well, Dr. Votyakov,” Victor said as she walked past him and into the elevator.

  Surprised by the sudden burst of vocabulary gymnastics displayed by Victor, Votyakov turned to look at him before asking, “What do you know of my work, Victor?”

  “Enough,” he replied, pressing the third-floor button. Votyakov didn’t push the issue. Tasked with creating the ultimate bioweapon, Votyakov’s research and lab results were known to only a handful of men. If Victor knew, he was much more than a simple bodyguard. He had the ears, or the confidence, of Veniamin Simonich. Something she could maybe use at a later date. Victor led the way out of the elevator and nodded to the two plainclothes agents from the Presidential Security Service standing next to the door leading to Simonich’s office.