Alec's Royal Assignment (Man On A Mission Book 3) (11 page)

“He is right. He is always right. That is why he is the king.” His expression held nothing but an absolute belief in the truth of his statement. “Your request is approved, Lieutenant.”

* * *

Alec hand-delivered the message Keira had sent to McKinnon via the embassy’s encrypted fax. He’d decrypted it himself and read what Keira had uncovered before he picked up the phone to request a meeting with McKinnon. The two men met on the embankment overlooking the river.

“She very carefully says there’s only a possibility what she just uncovered is connected to the human-trafficking case,” McKinnon said slowly, “but knowing what we know...”

Alec just looked at him. “You know something I don’t, obviously. You and Keira.”

“Yeah.” McKinnon was quiet for a moment and then seemed to reach a decision. “I wouldn’t normally say anything about an ongoing case, but I think you need to know this isn’t the first time Keira and I have run into Aleksandrov Vishenko. But I hope to God it’s the last.”

“Tell me.”

McKinnon leaned on the guardrail, staring out at a slow-moving barge on the river, but Alec could see his eyes weren’t focused outward, they were looking inward. “Remember when Keira was shot?”

“Of course.”

“That case revolved around Vishenko’s nephew, Michael Vishenko, aka Michael Pennington, and an organization called the New World Militia.” He made a movement of frustration. “Christ, this goes back
years.
”

“I’ve got nothing but time.” Alec’s voice was calm, but he had an urgent feeling inside, the one that told him he was on the right track, on the brink of something big.

“I wasn’t working for the agency when this whole thing started—the agency didn’t even exist. I was a US marshal back then. I was assigned to guard a witness testifying in a trial against a man named David Pennington, Michael Pennington’s father. We didn’t know it at the time, but Pennington was working hand in glove with Aleksandrov Vishenko. It’s a long, involved story, and I don’t need to tell you all of it, but what you
do
need to know is that Alexei Vishenko—as he’s more commonly known to law enforcement—is the head of a particularly vicious branch of the
Bratva
, aka—”

“The Brotherhood,” Alec broke in. “The Russian Mafia.” He nodded slowly as things started to connect. “The king told me up front he’d heard rumors the
Bratva
was involved in this operation, remember?” He cursed under his breath. “Now Keira’s message makes sense to me.”

“Drugs. Gunrunning. Prostitution. Money laundering. You name it—if it’s illegal, Vishenko has a hand in it. And those are just his illegal activities. He’s plowed his money into legitimate enterprises, as well. Not as profitable, but profitable enough. And completely aboveboard. He even pays his taxes on his legitimate earnings.”

McKinnon’s eyes narrowed. “The FBI has been after him for years. So has the IRS. And so has the agency—ever since we learned of Vishenko’s connection with the two Penningtons, father and son. We’ve never managed to make anything stick, and neither have the Fibbies—no one will testify against Vishenko. The two times the FBI managed to scrape up witnesses against him early on, the witnesses ended up dead. Gruesomely dead. And the US marshals guarding them were also killed.”

He breathed deeply. “You can forget the IRS— Vishenko’s too smart for them to make a case based on imputed income. Don’t get me wrong, he lives like a king. But his income from his legitimate businesses accounts for his lifestyle, and he’s been extremely careful not to exceed that. The FBI is still trying to make a racketeering case—RICO could bring him down and the government could confiscate everything—but the Fibbies can’t convince anyone to flip on Vishenko, not anymore—men would rather go to jail themselves than risk certain death...and can you blame them?”

“Apparently not. And the agency hasn’t had any luck, either?”

McKinnon made a sound of disgust. “Much as I hate to admit it, no. We’re in the same boat as the FBI. The old Sicilian law of
omerta
is nothing compared to the cone of silence surrounding Vishenko—no one will roll on him. Until someone does...”

“Great. Just great.”

“Yeah, but the agency hasn’t given up. And if he’s involved in this case...” McKinnon smiled, but his eyes were like blue ice. “God, what wouldn’t I give to be instrumental in putting him away for good,” he said softly.

Alec nodded. “Me, too. So let’s recap what we know so far. As I see it, there are three legs involved in the human trafficking of Zakharian women for prostitution purposes.”

“Knock out one, and the other legs will probably collapse. That’s the theory,” McKinnon said, a real smile starting. “So this tracks. A criminal element here in Zakhar—and there
is
a criminal element, no matter how draconian the laws are—lures the women with promises of modeling contracts, acting contracts, anything that will convince young, impressionable women to willingly agree to go to the US. The US embassy in Drago issues the visas for a price. Vishenko’s
Bratva
takes delivery of the women once they arrive in the States, and either sells them to gangs across the country—and there’s more of a market for that than you’d believe—or he pimps them out through his own organization.”

Alec closed his eyes briefly as he thought about telling all this to Angelina. “God,” he said, fixing his burning gaze on McKinnon, not realizing how much he was betraying his personal feelings toward Angelina. “Angelina’s cousin...”

“Yeah. If she was part of this, it had to be a nightmare for her. But the one good thing is, if Keira’s right, Caterina Mateja’s still alive.”

“But for how long?” Alec asked fiercely. “If Keira’s right, Vishenko has a million-dollar price tag on her head.” He stopped suddenly as an idea occurred to him. An idea that should have occurred to him right away, as soon as he read Keira’s message. An idea that could have monumental repercussions. “She knows something,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Caterina knows something.” Adrenaline surged through him, and he grasped McKinnon’s arm. “That’s why Vishenko wants her dead. That’s why the price is so high. She knows something—or she has evidence that can put him away—and he knows it.”

McKinnon shook his head regretfully. “Don’t jump to conclusions—the case is a long way from being made. Okay, so maybe she knows something. Or maybe she has evidence. But what makes you think—even if you can find her—she’ll testify against Vishenko?”

“Angelina would do it,” Alec said, the absolute certainty in his head and his heart reflected in his voice. “She’d do it because it’s the right thing to do, no matter the risk. If Caterina’s anything like her cousin, she’ll do it. She’ll testify.”

“Say you’re right. Say she’d be willing to testify. Say you can keep her safe long enough to get her in front of a jury so she
can
testify. How are you going to find her before Vishenko does? You can’t match the bounty he placed on her. Not even close. Plus, he’s got a head start.”

“I’ll find her,” Alec said grimly. “I’ll find her. I’ve got two secret weapons—Keira and Angelina.” His face hardened and his eyes went cold. “And when I find her, I’ll keep her safe if it’s the last thing I do.”

Chapter 11

A
ngelina watched the handcuffed prisoner—whose name was Boris Tabor—through the two-way mirror looking into the interview room, trying to understand the mind of a would-be assassin and what approach would get him to talk. She glanced at Captain Zale standing by the two-way mirror next to her.

“We know a lot about him,” the captain said in his blunt way. “And yet we know next to nothing.”

“He really
was
a cameraman,” Angelina said, glancing at her notes. “He worked in the newsroom of ZTV here in Drago for twenty-one years, until he was replaced by a remotely controlled robotic camera. The other man—the one I captured, the one Sasha killed—was not. Apparently he was coached in what to do by Boris Tabor.”

She didn’t need to add that Tabor was deeply in debt and strapped for cash—or he had been until two weeks ago, when he’d deposited an unusually large sum of money in his bank account. Source unknown. So far.

Like her, Captain Zale knew Tabor had already been in debt before he’d lost his job—preliminary reports placed the blame for this squarely on his wife’s shoulders, a beautiful woman who wanted more of the finer things in life than her husband could afford. But he’d been desperate to keep her, so he’d gone into debt to buy her whatever her heart desired. And when he’d lost his job, he’d lost his home and lost his ability to borrow. Shortly thereafter—unusual for Zakhar—his wife had divorced him. Divorce was still a shameful thing to many Zakharians, and word was, Tabor had sworn to get his wife back—no one knew how.

“He has no children,” Angelina murmured to herself, trying to get a handle on Tabor’s mind-set. Again, this was unusual for Zakhar. Most couples had three or more children.

“He was willing to kill a child,” Captain Zale reminded her. “Even if he had children of his own, I doubt we could have appealed to him on those grounds.”

She shook her head with regret. “You are right. That appeal would not have worked. And he has no incentive to talk.” Tabor had to know the most likely sentence would be life in prison. Although unlike in the States, life in prison in Zakhar literally meant
life.
The actual sentence read, “life plus one day,” as if the meaning needed to be hammered home.

Captain Zale snorted. “His previous interrogators reminded him of the gruesome sentence still on the books regarding an assassination attempt on a member of Zakhar’s royal family, successful or not. Unfortunately he knows the king commuted that punishment in the case of Prince Nikolai and those who conspired with him eighteen months ago. So that threat was worthless.”

Angelina could tell by the captain’s tone he wished otherwise, but it wasn’t their call to make. She could see the king invoking the ancient punishment the law allowed—Tabor had tried to kill the king’s son, after all—but the queen had influenced the king to leniency before. Angelina knew it was likely the queen would again, no matter how tempted the king might be.

“Whoever orchestrated the assassination attempt must have dangled a carrot in front of Tabor he could not resist—”

“Money,” Angelina said quickly. “A lot of money. It is the only thing that makes sense. Enough to wipe out his debt. To win back his wife and regain his pride.” An idea was forming, but it was still nebulous. Still just a niggling in the back of her brain.

Instead of trying to force the idea to take shape—something she knew was unlikely to be successful—Angelina let her mind wander to the others involved in the assassination attempt. Since they hadn’t yet been able to identify the other cameraman, they hadn’t established a paper trail on him, and his motive remained unclear. Except for his fake identification badge, which rivaled the real thing, complete with his picture—not surprising, given Tcholek’s involvement in the conspiracy—no identification at all had been found on his body, and his fingerprints weren’t on file in Zakhar. A request had been submitted to Interpol through channels, but so far they hadn’t heard anything.

Tabor had also been provided with a fake identification badge, but in his real name, and Angelina wondered about that now. Was it because he really was a TV cameraman? Or was there another reason?

She glanced down at her notes again. Neither Tabor nor the other man had been assigned to cover the christening—the bodies of the real cameramen had been found the next day by hikers in the mountains surrounding Drago. Ballistics tests proved they’d been killed with Tcholek’s gun, so he’d obviously been instrumental in effecting the substitution. The team investigating the assassination attempt had already surmised that, but it was good to have proof. She wished she knew why Sasha had betrayed them.

As if their thoughts had followed the same path, Captain Zale said abruptly, “I would give a year of my life to know why Tcholek did it.” Self-recrimination was evident in his voice. Sasha had once been part of his team, and Angelina knew the knowledge that he had harbored a traitor in the ranks was eating at her captain.

“So you do not believe—as the other investigators insist—that the motive was money?”

The captain shook his head. “His bank accounts show nothing out of the ordinary. Knowing that, and knowing him, I find it hard to believe.”

Angelina agreed with Captain Zale. She remembered Sasha from working with him on the queen’s security detail. He’d even asked her out a couple of times, and had taken her refusals in good part. He’d seemed no different from anyone else she’d worked with. Which meant money
couldn’t
have been the motivating factor. There had to be another reason.

She sighed softly. It wasn’t absolutely necessary to know why. She just needed to know who.
Who
might lead to
why.
And in order to know who, she had to find the key to breaking Boris Tabor. Somehow.
What makes you think you will succeed where others have failed?
she asked herself derisively, and for just a moment she felt defeated even before she started. Then she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Alec thought she could do this. She had to try.

Angelina put down the clipboard containing her notes, when all at once the idea she’d tried not to force suddenly coalesced in her brain. Her eyes widened in sudden excitement, and she nodded to herself as everything came together. She picked the clipboard up again, removed her notes, and on a blank piece of paper quickly jotted down some questions to use as a prop. Then she glanced at Captain Zale again.

“Tag team?” he asked.

She shook her head, trying not to let her enthusiasm for her idea overwhelm her common sense. “That has been tried several times,” she said, “with no success. I would like to try on my own. Look at him,” she told her captain. “He is tired, both physically and of being questioned by men who have tried to intimidate him. I have an approach I think might work.”

“It cannot hurt,” he agreed.

The door to the viewing room opened and two senior members of the king’s security detail entered the room—men Angelina recognized—and her heart sank. If Majors Kostya and Branko were here to question the prisoner, her chance would be lost.

But Captain Zale surprised her. “Go ahead, Lieutenant,” he ordered. “The prisoner is yours to question. The video camera will be running, of course.”

“Of course.” She opened the door and walked into the room before the majors could stop her.

“Good morning, Mr. Tabor,” she said pleasantly, holding out her hand. “I am Angelina Mateja.” She deliberately didn’t use her professional rank, having already figured he would react negatively to a woman in a position of power. Then she pretended to be surprised he was handcuffed. “Oh, I am
so
sorry. Let me undo those for you.” She quickly unlocked the handcuffs, pushed them to the other side of the table and held out her hand again.

He looked at her a little uncertainly, rubbing his wrists, but then the good manners he’d probably been raised with came to the fore, and he shook her hand. “Good morning.”

“May I sit down?” He waved a hand at the other three chairs, and Angelina seated herself in the chair closest to him rather than across the table. “Thank you.”

She smiled sweetly at him, winning a brief smile in return. But then he said truculently, “I have nothing further to say, Miss Mateja. I have said all I know.”

She kept her smile in place, tilting her head to one side. “Now, you see, Mr. Tabor, I find that difficult to believe.”

“I am not lying! I told those other investigators and I am telling you. Prince Nikolai was the mastermind of the plot. The king’s own cousin. And that is all I have to say!”

She forced understanding onto her face, nodding as if she believed him. “And yet, Mr. Tabor, I think perhaps you know more than you are saying—not that I think you are lying. No, not that. Not
you.
But sometimes we may hear things that do not make sense to us...until the right question is asked. Is that not true?”

Obviously mollified that Angelina had admitted he wasn’t lying, he agreed, although reluctantly. “Yes, that is true sometimes.”

“Then will you just bear with me as I ask my questions?” She put a little submissiveness into her voice, playing up to him, and indicated her list attached to a clipboard, as if she—a mere woman—was just following orders.

After a moment, he nodded slowly. “Ask your questions, Miss Mateja. I know nothing more than I have said, but...ask your questions.”

“Thank you.” She smiled gently. “First, Mr. Tabor, will you tell me in your own words how a man like you came to be involved? Someone must have approached you. It could not have been Prince Nikolai—he is in prison.” She wasn’t about to reveal that Prince Nikolai was dead...under suspicious circumstances. She didn’t want to alarm this man.

“It was Tcholek. Sasha Tcholek. He...”

Angelina looked up from her clipboard. “Yes?”

Boris Tabor licked his dry lips. “May I have a glass of water?”

“Of course.” She got up from her chair, deliberately leaving her clipboard on the table, and walked out. While Captain Zale fetched a pitcher of water and a glass, she stood silently with Majors Kostya and Branko, watching as Boris Tabor quickly, furtively, read the questions on her list. It was a made-up list of innocuous questions, not the questions she intended to ask. But he would not know that until it was too late.

When Captain Zale returned with the water, Angelina took the pitcher and the glass from him, waited for him to open the door for her and backed into the room. “Here you are, Mr. Tabor,” she said, placing the glass on the table and serving him from the pitcher rather than letting him do it himself, putting herself into a subservient role. As he drank, she reseated herself at the table.

“Sasha Tcholek,” she prompted, making a meaningless notation on her clipboard, as if she was ticking off another question.

“I have said this before. Many times.”

“Humor me?” She smiled at him. “I do not want to be reprimanded for not asking my list of questions.”

He sighed deeply but did as she asked. “Tcholek supplied the badges and the guns. He even told us where to secret the guns in the cathedral, and he is the one who retrieved them for us. He said Prince Nikolai would pay a fortune to be revenged on his cousin.”

When he stopped, Angelina raised her eyebrows, innocently curious. “A fortune?”

“Yes,” he said curtly. “A fortune.” He didn’t say anything more, and Angelina waited patiently. Finally he added in a rough voice, “I...I lost my job two years ago. I could not find another.”

“And a man has his pride,” she said softly, nodding her comprehension of the quandary he’d been in. “You could not take charity, not a man like you.”

“Yes,” he agreed quickly. “I am glad you understand.”

A half hour came and went. Then an hour. And still they danced around and around the edges of knowledge. After establishing a rapport, with Boris Tabor seemingly in command, Angelina finally asked, “Tell me about the other man. He was not a professional cameraman like you, yes?” Admiration was in her voice, as if she was impressed by his former job as a professional cameraman in the television industry.

“He was not,” Tabor said with a little huff of superiority. “I had to show him what to do. How to handle the camera. Something as simple as panning in and out, how to control the steering ring, how to lock the wheels—everything! He knew nothing about television cameras. He did not even know how to turn one on!”

“If he was not a cameraman, then what was he? What was his profession?”

Tabor hesitated. “He never said.”

“But a smart man like you...you guessed. Yes?”

“He and Tcholek talked together alone sometimes, you understand. Almost in whispers. I did not always hear them.”

“But you knew.”

“I...suspected. I did not know.”

Angelina propped an elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand, as if the story fascinated her. “What did you suspect?”

The long silence that followed Angelina’s question was finally broken when Boris Tabor admitted, “Some kind of criminal activity. Drugs, perhaps. Perhaps women. I did not really want to know.”

“Of course,” she agreed seriously. She glanced down at her clipboard, but only to give herself something to do. She already knew the next question she would ask. “When the other man...what was his name? I forget.”

“Yuri Ivanovitch. He was Russian,” Tabor said with a touch of contempt. “Not Zakharian.”

“Right, Yuri,” she said, snapping her fingers, as if she’d known it all along but it had just slipped her mind. “When Yuri Ivanovitch and Sasha Tcholek were talking in whispers, did they ever mention another name?”

Tabor’s eyes fell under hers. “Yes, but I...I did not know who they were talking about.”

“So it could not have been Prince Nikolai.”

“No.”

“If you heard the name again, would you recognize it?”

He hesitated for several seconds. “Perhaps.”

Angelina sensed she was close. “Would you try something for me, Mr. Tabor?”

“If I can.”

She leaned her chin on her hand again. “Close your eyes. Sometimes, when we close our eyes, our other senses take over. Would you do that for me?” He eyed her suspiciously at first, but Angelina smiled her most innocent smile, and he eventually closed his eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Tabor. You are so good to help me like this.”