Alec's Royal Assignment (Man On A Mission Book 3) (13 page)

“The wiretap has been extended,” the man began in his most ingratiating voice.

“Do not bleat at me like a sheep. And do not tell me things I already know from other sources.”

Intimidation sometimes worked with this man, as he yielded information he would not otherwise reveal in his fear of losing his usefulness to Vishenko.

The money Vishenko had paid him through the years was enough to supplement the man’s lifestyle, not support it. Vishenko had made sure of it. He wanted him to remain with his current federal agency employer. Even though this man was one of the weapons in Vishenko’s arsenal, he never let on just how important his information had become over the years or paid him what the information was really worth. He always downplayed its significance, as he was doing now. Vishenko hadn’t heard the FBI’s wiretap had been extended. But he knew it now.

Not that he ever said anything incriminating over the phone. He wasn’t stupid. His homes—the condo in Manhattan and his estate on Long Island—as well as this car, were electronically swept for listening devices daily. Everyone who met with him was screened by his men for a body wire—neither the FBI nor the agency would ever convict him that way.

“So what do you have to tell me that is worth our meeting like this?”

“The agency has been sending out feelers again,” the man said quickly. “Asking for the FBI’s assistance. The two agencies haven’t worked together since their joint task force was disbanded six months ago. The joint task force focused on your nephew and his super PAC, NOANC.”

“Michael is in jail, and will remain in jail. And his political action committee, NOANC, is dead.” Vishenko’s voice grew even colder. “What does this have to do with me? The task force tried—and failed—to establish a link between Michael and me, other than the familial one. We are related, yes. But that is all. The joint FBI/agency task force could never prove otherwise.”

And they never will,
he thought but didn’t say. He’d been extremely careful to keep his distance from Michael Vishenko’s plots and schemes, the product of his nephew’s uncontrollable desire for revenge against the men he held responsible for the death of his father, David Pennington.

The task force had also tried to tie Aleksandrov Vishenko to David Pennington, again with no success, because there hadn’t been anything to find. Except for one minor detail. One extremely minor detail he’d almost forgotten. Which meant the task force had
nothing
on him. Unless...

Unless Caterina Mateja had surfaced. Unless she’d given the FBI or the agency—
or both
, he thought grimly—the evidence she’d stolen from him when she ran. If someone pieced together the two seemingly disparate documents, that would be the evidence the now-disbanded task force needed to bring him down. A task force that could easily be revived.

Vishenko dismissed the man and watched him as he got out of the car and walked away, furtively glancing around to make sure he wasn’t spotted. Vishenko laughed softly to himself, then called his chauffeur on his cell phone just in case the chauffeur hadn’t seen the other man leave.

As he was being driven back to Manhattan, Vishenko coldly reminded himself he needed to find Caterina and silence her permanently. Even if the documents surfaced, they could not be introduced as evidence without her to authenticate their source.

Failure to find Caterina was no longer an option he could afford.

* * *

Alec and Angelina dozed briefly. Then woke, ravenous. They raided her kitchen wearing nothing but T-shirts, and she was glad she’d restocked her refrigerator that afternoon. Alec’s appetite for food was as unapologetically hearty as his appetite for sex.

They feasted in bed, and Angelina didn’t even care about the crumbs. Crumbs could be brushed away. Watching Alec eat, watching his enjoyment of the little delicacies she’d bought with him in mind—although she hadn’t admitted it to herself at the time—was another sensual pleasure she cherished.

“So tell me,” she said, forking a pickled beet from the jar she held, popping it in her mouth before it could drip and making a face at the sweet tartness.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you had a hell of a day.”

He grimaced and shook his head regretfully. “Sorry, Angel. It’s something I can’t really discuss with you. But it was, believe me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job most of the time. But today was a hell of a day. And it’s still not resolved.”

“Nothing to do with what you told me, is it? About why the king brought you here?”

“No. But there
is
news on that front.” He was silent for a moment, his face troubled, as if he wasn’t sure how she’d take whatever he had to tell her.

“It is bad?” she asked. “Bad news?” Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. “Caterina. She is dead. That is what you do not want to tell me.”

He put his plate down on the bedside table, roughly pushing the lamp to one side. “No, that’s not it. We don’t think she’s dead.” He took the jar of pickled beets from her, placed it beside his plate and then held both her hands in his. “We think we might have a line on her,” he explained.

“A line? What is that?”

He laughed briefly at himself. “It just means... Oh, hell, it’s not something that translates easily. Literally it has to do with fishing, but figuratively it means we think we might know where she is. We’re not sure it’s even the same person, but...we think it might be.”

“We? You mean you and Princess Mara’s husband?”

“Yeah. Remember what I told you, that McKinnon was checking out your cousin for me?” She nodded. “McKinnon asked my sister, who works at his agency, to run a check on your cousin. Visas, travel records, anything and everything she could find. Keira found something else. On a totally different case. And she made the connection—easy, she says, because the name is so unusual. Caterina Mateja. Neither Caterina nor Mateja is common in the US.” He paused, and she knew he was trying to find a way to tell her something he really didn’t want to tell her. Because he knew it would hurt her.

“It is best to just say it, straight out,” she told him. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

He took a deep breath. “If your cousin is the Caterina Mateja that Keira tracked down, she’s still alive. But how long is anyone’s guess, because someone ordered a hit. And the going price is a million dollars.”

“Who?” Angelina whispered. “Who wants her dead?”

Alec’s face formed into grim lines. “His name is Vishenko. Aleksandrov Vishenko. McKinnon’s encountered him before, and it’s all bad. Really bad. Vishenko is the head of a branch of—”

“The
Bratva
,” she said, cutting him off, her eyes growing huge as she made the connection. “The Russian mob. Operating in the US and now in Zakhar. I know.”

He stared at her. “How do you know that?”

“That was why I called you today,” she told him. “To tell you I interrogated the surviving cameraman. To tell you he finally gave us names. Not only the other cameraman—a Russian, Yuri Ivanovitch—but the man who was really behind the assassination attempt on the crown prince. Another Russian. Alexei Vishenko.”

Chapter 13

“S
on of a bitch!” Alec whispered under his breath. Just that quickly he saw everything plain. It all finally made sense. Incredible, unbelievable sense.

Vishenko and the
Bratva
, involved in trafficking Zakharian women into the United States—a highly profitable, illegal enterprise. Zakhar’s king, whose focus was on stopping it, who’d maneuvered to bring Alec in as RSO for that very reason. Vishenko wanting the king distracted. Not dead. No, not that. What had McKinnon said about Vishenko?
“He’s plowed his money into legitimate enterprises... Not as profitable, but profitable enough. And completely aboveboard...”

Stable governments equaled stable economies. Stable economies equaled steady profits for legitimate businesses. So if Vishenko had money invested in legitimate enterprises here in Zakhar—which seemed likely—of course he wouldn’t want to destabilize the economy by assassinating the king. Killing the crown prince would put a bobble in the economy, true, but it wouldn’t have the same destabilizing effect as killing the king. But it
would
turn the king’s attention away from the human-trafficking ring. Hadn’t it already done so to a certain extent? Hadn’t Angelina told him the king had diverted focus to investigate the backgrounds of
every
person on the security details guarding the royal family?

Sowing suspicion within the ranks. Not exactly divide and conquer, but close enough.
Alec was a student of political history, and he’d often wondered why governments never seemed to learn the harsh lessons history taught. Why it seemed as if every generation or so, the same things came to pass, and the men and women in uniform paid the price again and again. He didn’t exempt his own country from that severe judgment—the United States was often the worst offender when it came to forgetting history.

Wasn’t that one of the main reasons he and Liam had joined the Diplomatic Security Service when they got out of the Marine Corps? Because diplomacy, no matter how futile it sometimes seemed, was often better than all-out war?

But this wasn’t one government calling out another. This was one man who thought he was above the law, who thought he and his criminal organization could get away with murder.
Not on my watch,
Alec thought grimly.
The rule of law has to be the rule of law for everyone—governments and individuals.
Somehow he had to bring Vishenko to justice. And Caterina Mateja was the key.

He started assembling a plan in his head, automatically assigning tasks to McKinnon, Keira, Angelina and himself. Then he cursed under his breath. “I need to talk to McKinnon,” he told Angelina abruptly. “And then we need to see the king.”

* * *

Eleven people sat around the conference table in the same small conference room where Alec had met with the king, the king’s cousin and closest confidant, and the secretary of state. The seven people Alec had wanted in attendance—the king, the three policemen working the case for Zakhar, McKinnon, Angelina and himself—had been augmented by four more. Captain Zale was there at Angelina’s insistence, and Colonel Marianescu and Majors Kostya and Branko were there at the king’s request.

Alec presented the known facts and the conjectures he’d drawn from them. He was careful how he disclosed what Angelina had told him, explaining that it was only after he’d given her Vishenko’s name in connection with her cousin that she’d revealed his name had also come up in the investigation into the assassination attempt on the crown prince. And of course he left out completely that they’d been in bed together when they’d shared their information on Aleksandrov Vishenko. Not only was it immaterial to the investigation, but he knew it was his responsibility to shield Angelina from any criticism that could be leveled at her by the men in the room. Especially since it would be completely unwarranted.

When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair and said, “I want to add Lieutenant Mateja to my team, Your Majesty. Her cousin is the key to bringing down Vishenko—I know it. I firmly believe Lieutenant Mateja will be critical in locating her cousin and convincing her to testify against Vishenko in the trafficking case. I realize this might put a strain on the queen’s security detail, especially since we don’t know how long this will take—that’s why the lieutenant wanted her captain here for the discussion.”

McKinnon spoke for the first time. “I don’t think there will be a problem convincing my agency to let us continue using Special Agent Keira Walker’s services for as long as we need her. My agency has been after Vishenko for years, and I know the head of the agency would give his eyeteeth to bring him down. So any assets we need, all we have to do is ask.”

The king nodded and looked at Captain Zale. “Captain? What is your opinion?”

“Lieutenant Mateja is a critical member of the queen’s security detail,” he said.

Damned right,
Alec couldn’t help thinking.
I’m glad you finally see that.

“But with a little cooperation from the queen,” Captain Zale continued, “we can function without the lieutenant’s services for as long as necessary. As I see it, bringing to justice the man who attempted to end the life of the crown prince takes precedence over nearly every other consideration.”

“I agree,” the king said. “And the queen will, too. You will have the cooperation you need, Captain.” He turned his gaze on Majors Kostya and Branko. “Damon? Lukas? Anything to add?”

The two majors exchanged telling glances, and Alec wondered what that was all about. But the only answer they gave was, “No, Sire.”

“Zax?” the king asked, but Colonel Marianescu just shook his head.

The king faced Alec again. “Your request is granted, Special Agent Jones. Lieutenant Mateja is relieved of duty as of now, and is subject to your orders until further notice.” He glanced around the table. “Is there anything else, gentlemen?”

The senior policeman assigned to the case spoke up. “We have the names of seven Americans from the embassy,” he said abruptly. “Six are no longer in this country.”

Before the king could say anything, Alec asked sharply, “How did you get the names?”

When the policeman didn’t say anything, just stared back at Alec with a steady, unwavering expression, Alec glanced at the king, hoping he would intervene and order the policeman to reveal the source of his information. “I can take the names as a starting point, sir,” he explained. “But that’s all. It’s not evidence I can use if the names were the result of torture or some other kind of coercion.”

The king’s voice was dangerously soft when he said, “Torture, Special Agent Jones, is not tolerated in Zakhar any more than it is in the US.”

“That may be true, sir,” Alec conceded. “But coercion of any kind...”

“Not coercion,” the senior policeman said now. He smiled coldly. “It was a stroke of luck. Unbelievable luck. A lower-level criminal was arrested on an unrelated drug charge. We were not even looking at him for the human-trafficking conspiracy, but he offered up what he knew in exchange for leniency on the drug charge.”

Alec began to get the picture. Drugs were a very serious crime in Zakhar, even for a first offense. Zakharian judges and juries had no sympathy—the conviction rate was high and the sentences harsh. It was a huge break for them.

“This led us to five other men,” the policeman continued, “all with criminal records, all of whom are now in custody. Two of those men agreed to plead to lesser charges in exchange for their testimony against the other Zakharians in the conspiracy, including certain Zakharian officials who they claim were on the take. None of the officials have been arrested, but they are being closely watched. Their complicity in the conspiracy has not been established with certainty, and we do not want to move until you are ready to do so, as well—we do not want to tip our hand.”

Alec nodded his understanding, and the policeman continued in a dispassionate voice. “Both of the men have independently named seven Americans who either are, or were, stationed at the US embassy over the past nine years—men who supplied the fraudulent US visas for a price.” He pulled a notepad from his pocket and referred to it. “Four of the men were Foreign Service officers at the embassy who are now gone. One is still here.”

He named a name Alec recognized, instantly putting a face to the name. “Who are the others?” he asked.

The policeman read off the list of names. “Two were previous regional security officers, one of whom was your predecessor at the embassy.”

A sick feeling settled in Alec’s gut. Seven men. Seven corrupt officials serving at the US embassy over the past nine years. He’d known in his heart the king was right, that visa fraud
had
to be involved in this trafficking case—it was the only thing that made sense. But he’d hoped it wouldn’t be this bad. That it would turn out one, maybe two, people at the embassy were involved. Not seven men over nine years.

Slippery slope,
he reminded himself. How many of these men had been lured into the conspiracy by their predecessors or others they worked with, believing “everyone does it,” and they’d never get caught? He would never know.

Alec pulled his own notebook from an inner jacket pocket and mechanically jotted down all seven names. His predecessor as RSO was the one that hit closest to home—he’d known the man for a long time. Not a friend, just an acquaintance. But still someone he knew personally. How many other men he knew in the DSS—men he’d worked with over the years—were also corrupt? He couldn’t believe Zakhar was unique in that aspect.
Another thing I’ll probably never know,
he admitted to himself.

He glanced up at the policeman. “Nothing on the ambassador?” he asked, holding his breath. He and McKinnon had pretty much cleared the ambassador in their minds based on the information McKinnon had been able to collect through his agency, but they could have missed something. And if the corruption went that high...

The policeman shook his head. “No, nothing. And we firmly believe the names we have in our possession are an all-inclusive list.”

Well, that’s something anyway,
Alec didn’t voice that thought as he tucked his notebook away. Seven corrupt officials working at one embassy would be a scandal when the press finally broke the story—
when the indictments come down and not a moment sooner,
he vowed silently—but not nearly the scandal it would be if the current and/or former ambassador to Zakhar were involved.

“No one you questioned mentioned Vishenko?” When the policeman shook his head regretfully, Alec said, “It would be too much to hope for, but I had to ask.”

Silence filled the room for a minute. Then the king glanced around the table once more and asked again, “Is there anything else, gentlemen?” When no one spoke, he said, “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. You are dismissed.” He stood, obviously expecting them to file out, which they did. Alec hung back because he wanted a word with the king alone, but the king said, “One moment, Lieutenant, if you please. And you, too, Special Agent Jones, if you would be so kind.”

Alec exchanged glances with McKinnon.
Wait for me,
he mouthed, and McKinnon nodded before leaving the conference room.

The king turned to his bodyguards and said, “Privacy, please.” The two majors also left the room, following McKinnon out.

Angelina stood at military attention, and Alec could see—because he’d come to know her so well even though they hadn’t known each other very long in something as unimportant as time—that she was nervous at being asked by the king to stay. It wasn’t anything in her face or manner, or even her body language, but somehow he knew she was expecting the worst.

After the door closed behind the last person to leave, the king smiled unexpectedly. “Why is it, Lieutenant, you always fear I intend to reprimand you when I ask to speak with you? What have I done to deserve that reputation?” He didn’t wait for an answer he probably figured wasn’t forthcoming. “No, Lieutenant, I merely wanted to remind you of our earlier conversation regarding a fighting man’s instincts. And to talk to you about your cousin. She was like your younger sister, yes?”

A look of surprise crossed Angelina’s face.

“That information is in your dossier, Lieutenant. It is not a secret. It is one of the reasons Colonel Marianescu and Captain Zale picked you for the queen’s security detail. One of the reasons I wholeheartedly endorsed their selection. You understand what it is to lose someone you love.” He waited for that to sink in before adding, “That your cousin may not be dead, after all, that she may be in mortal peril instead, is something you will have to deal with. And if your cousin dies, you will have to grieve for her all over again.”

“I know that, Sire. I...” Angelina’s pale blue eyes never left the king’s face. “I have accepted it.”

“I understand how difficult it is to be detached when someone you love is in danger.” The king’s eyes—such a vivid green—seemed to darken with his words, and one hand clenched tightly. “How the desire for revenge can overwhelm even the best of intentions.” After a tense moment, he visibly, forcibly relaxed. “But I have faith in you, Lieutenant. This man Vishenko must face justice for his crimes, along with everyone else involved—they must be
seen
to face justice as a deterrent to others. Killing them is easy. Bringing them to justice is not. Do not let me down. Do not let your country down.”

Alec hadn’t thought Angelina’s spine could be any straighter, but at the king’s words, pure steel seemed to enter it. “No, Sire,” she promised, the light of determination in her eyes. “I will never let you down.”

The king’s smile returned. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Thank you, Lieutenant. That is all.” He waited until Angelina had left the room, with her soft yet military tread, and then he turned to Alec, whose eyes had followed Angelina’s exit. “Yes, Special Agent Jones? You wished to speak privately with me?”

It had to be said. “Forgive me for speaking frankly, sir,” Alec said slowly. “But I want to emphasize that while the US will cooperate fully in the investigation into the attempted assassination of your son and Vishenko’s involvement in it, our primary focus has to be the human-trafficking case involving the corruption and visa fraud at our embassy.” Alec put as much regret into the tone he used for his next words as he could. “Your son’s case—while understandably of paramount importance to you—is ancillary to our primary investigation.”