Russian Law (Law Series ) (Volume 1) (2 page)

“Nikolai,”
his name caught in her throat as she ran to his side. The intelligent part of
her knew he was dead, that he would never again speak her name, the hopeful
part wished for a miracle, that this was all some sort of sick joke. But of
course it wasn’t. Tears blurred her vision as she reached out to him and a
heart-wrenching sob came from her lips. She didn’t recognize the sound, the
voice that was so full of pain could not be her own. But she knew that it was
so, her Nikolai was dead, murdered in their home and by God she was going to
find the man that did it.

Chapter 1

Now,

Annandale,
Virginia, USA

The
cell phone beside
the bed chirped incessantly, the caller obviously eager to speak to him. Lucas
rolled over, away from the blonde sleeping next to him and snatched up the
phone and growled into it.

“What?”

The
voice on the other end sounded fully alert, having been up most of the night
already. “Gates? Get your ass out of bed. We’ve got a DB.”

His
boss, CIA Special Agent in Charge, James Fitzgibbon was never one to waste
minutes. Lucas was already getting out of bed, stumbling for his clothes.

“Be
right there.”

He
hung up without a goodbye. He knew his boss wouldn’t be offended. They both
knew the score and were always thinking a mile ahead, never worrying about
useless things such as formalities and manners. Marlie sat up, clutching the
blanket to her naked breasts, a frown burrowed deep in her forehead. Her eyes
narrowed.

“Every
God damn night that phone rings,” she complained.

“Yeah
the dead body is a real inconvenient for a sleep in,” he said dryly, before
looking over at her pouting face. “Sorry honey but it’s my job. You’ll get used
it.”

She
obviously disagreed with him, shaking her head.

“No
I won’t, today when you come home - whenever that may be,” she added
sarcastically. “I won’t be here – not that you’d notice anyway.”

Lucas
groaned, not one of
those
mornings he prayed silently, please I’ll be a
good boy from now on, just please not one of those talks. I don’t have the time
to pacify her and I know I’ll have to when I say something stupid and we both
know I will if we have
the
talk.

“Honey,”
he stopped dressing and knelt on the bed beside her. “My job is very
important,” he steamrolled ahead when he saw her face grow darker. “Not that
you’re not important but I need to do my job.”

His
job was important and he did it well, no he did it great. So what if he had
more reprimands than anyone else in his unit? He was also the one with the most
arrests and case closures than anyone else. He admitted he was a little rough
around the edges. He didn’t take shit from no one especially criminals who
thought the law didn’t apply to them. He didn’t believe in rights for the
convicted or even the assumed guilty and he let his thoughts be known.

Usually
loudly.

His
boss, James Fitzgibbon had recruited him straight out of training and took him
under his wings. Everything he knew he could credit to James even though some
days Fitzgibbon refused to admit he even knows Lucas. But he also knows that
sometimes to get the job done right, you have to break a few rules, which is
probably the only reason Lucas still had a job. Any other Special Agent in
Charge would have booted him straight out of Langley.

Marlie
shook her head again, crossing her arms under her breasts and scowled at him, showing
him her growing displeasure. They had only been going out for a little over
five months but the woman had already tried every guilt trick known to man on
him, starting with the usual - tears. Not one having the slightest affect on
him whatsoever.

“No
Lucas I’ve had enough.”

Strangely
Lucas didn’t care. He knew that was not an appropriate response when the woman
you’ve been sleeping with says she’s had enough. He knew he should be begging
her to stay or to be making promises to cut back on work or some such shit men
ultimately did to keep a woman in his life. But Lucas just nodded, picked up
his clothes and headed to the bathroom. Hopefully she’ll be gone by the time he
gets home tonight. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with long goodbyes and dreams
that once were.

An
hour later, several hand gestures and colorful remarks behind him, Lucas
arrived at the crime scene in Chevy Chase. The house was the typical American
dream complete with the customary white picket fence that immediately made you
think of the Cleavers. He knew what he would find inside would be a world away
from Ward and June.

He
was dressed in a dark brown suit, his blonde hair reaching his collar and he
absently thought that it was time for another cut. He pulled out his badge and
I.D from his pant pocket, flashing the uniformed police officer on duty a
glance at his Smith and Wesson sitting in the gun holster attached to his belt
as his jacket was opened.

The
officer let him inside and directed him towards the action. Lucas’s eyes found
the once human being but now medical waste lying on the floor. The body looked
like Swiss cheese and blood reached from one end of the room to the other and
splattered all over the wall and seeped into the carpet. He had seen many
scenes such as this over the years, now not even the smell got to him.

Lucas
moved around what was left of the body and gave a cursory look about the house.
The Crime Scene Unit was in full swing, photographing the scene, collecting
evidence and dusting for fingerprints. He saw nothing that warranted his
involvement and frowned. A plain clothed detective looked up from taking notes
and caught sight of Lucas. He walked towards him.

“Special
Agent Gates?”

Lucas
nodded. “What can the CIA do for you?”

The
detective looked at the badge Lucas had attached to his belt beside his gun,
approving him before speaking.

“The
DB – name of Igor Zimtov-tovski-strov,” he had trouble pronouncing the surname,
stumbling over the syllables. “The dudes Russian.”

“So
call ICE,” Lucas offered, referring to Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

The
detective shook his head. “No, I’ve got the right guy. We found this on his
body.”

He
handed Lucas a small leather case, one Lucas had seen many times before, one he
had sitting in his bureau at home. He opened it up, his heart sinking when he
spotted the badge and identification. The man was in fact Russian and also
worked for Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Agency, SVR.

Shit,
Lucas thought. It was really going to hit the fan and rain down on them. The
Russian’s were not going to like this one little bit. They didn’t take kindly
to their citizens being murdered on foreign soil. He didn’t like to think of
the storm going to come down when it’s known the victim also worked for the
Russian Government. He wondered if anyone at the Agency knew that the Russian
was in the country. Operating on foreign soil was not looked upon lightly
especially by the United States. That thought didn’t sit well with Lucas. What
the hell was Igor Zimtovich doing in Washington?

Lucas
rubbed a hand over his unshaven face. It was going to be one hell of a long
day. Jim was likely to be in a foul mood and Lucas didn’t blame him. US –
Russian relations were sketchy at best, he only hoped that they didn’t feel the
need to retaliate. The last thing anyone wanted was another war.

“You
better find the Russian’s some answers,” Lucas told the detective.

The
Metro cop shook his head. “No that’s your job Agent. We’re just evidence
collection. Everything we find is being sent directly to Langley. SAC
Fitzgibbon’s orders. Take it up with him.”

Lucas
swore. “Shit.”

He
ran his fingers through his longish hair. Fucking fantastic he thought. He just
loved dealing with the Russkies.

Chapter 2

Michael
Ducane looked
out the window of the Rossiya Airline’s plane as it touched down at Moscow’s
Domodedovo Airport. The sky was grey and he could practically feel the cold air
seep into his bones. The landscape was dotted with white as the snow continued
to fall. November wasn’t usually the time of year a tourist planned a visit to
Russia. He waited until most of the passengers disembarked before standing and
making his way towards immigration.

Michael
was confident he would not be stopped and prepared his face of that of an
exhausted tourist. He handed his passport to the stout, dark-haired officer and
watched calmly as the man looked down at his photo then back at his face, insuring
it was the same man before moving onto the passport, tilting it in the light to
view the hologram imbedded, scrutinizing it for any chance of a forgery. Michael
didn’t hold his breath and wasn’t at all concerned, the fake was unlikely to be
detected since it had cost top dollar and he had used this particular identity
previously without any issue.

His
light brown locks were slightly disheveled giving him a ‘just woken up’ look
that seemed to soften his features and give him a look of innocence that customs
and immigration officers all over seemed to believe. They couldn’t be more
wrong. He had become a pro at working the system, being able to read the officers
and pick the ones he could easily manipulate or maybe they all were just tired
of dealing with cranky travelers and didn’t want to have an irate passenger on
their watch so they tended to give him a wide berth. Either way it worked in
his favor.

“How
long do you plan to stay?” the immigration officer asked in flawless English,
his voice ruff with his Russian accent.

Michael
gave a weary smile. “Two weeks.”

The
officer gave another glance at the passport before stamping it and handing it
back to Michael.

“Enjoy
your time in Moscow.”

Michael
flashed an easy smile in response.

“Thank
you, I plan to,” and with that walked off to baggage claim and picked up his
small suitcase. It was something he had done many times before. Every airport
in the world looked and worked the same whether it was Dulles, Heathrow or
Kuwait International. Nothing ever changed and he figured he could navigate the
busy airport with his eyes closed.

He
moved confidently through the mob of tired passengers while his mind was on the
job at hand. He ran through his to-do list. First and foremost was getting in
contact with Alvin Pochenchov, his new benefactor’s choice for providing
Michael with the supplies he needed to complete his job. He didn’t like working
with third parties he didn’t know but the money was good and he trusted his
benefactor – in this matter at least. There wouldn’t be many even in this God
forsaken country who had the balls to cross a man high up in Government.

Michael
didn’t care who or what their agendas were. He was purely in it for the fame
and fortune not to mention the carnage and excitement that came along with it. He
loved the fact that his name was known to many, that he was being actively
pursued by many government bodies, American and foreign and had yet to be
caught by either. He marveled at their stupidity, after all he was just one man
and enjoyed the game of cat and mouse, watching them chase their tails
endlessly whilst he moved onto his next target.

He
wasn’t cut out for a nine to five job and certainly not a blue collar one,
which was what had been waiting for him straight out of high school. People in
his neighborhood didn’t go to college. Didn’t amount to anything and died young
and broke. Michael had been determined not to follow in their footsteps.

His
lucrative career had started one day when he was just a snot nosed kid who
packed too much gunpowder into a mailbox and watched it get blown to kingdom
come. Now, years later he had perfected his cocktail for maximum effect and was
the
go to man, his clients often outsourcing so they themselves remained
clean and off the radar – many for political reasons and feared the blowback or
retaliation of such an act.

Michael
wasn’t concerned about taking responsibility, in fact left clues to his
identity so that he would be credited with the destruction and devastation. All
it did was build his reputation and bring in more contracts every time the
media showed one of his works of art, naming him as the perpetrator. There was
nothing like free advertising and what was the point of a spectacular explosion
if no one was around to witness the beauty of it?

And
his next project was sure going to be the talk of the town and more televised
than the Oscars and would be remembered long after he was bone dust in the
ground.

Ducane
exited the airport with no more delays and walked straight up to the dark
Lincoln with blackened windows and climbed in the back. The car pulled slowly
away from the kerb and fell in with the traffic leaving the airport, heading
for the heart of Moscow.

He
had business to do.

Special
Agent in Charge James Fitzgibbon could feel the ulcer in his gut burning. He
had been on the phone to the Russian Government all morning, trying to mend
ties and soothe ruffled feathers, ever the peace maker. This was one fucked up
situation and it was only going to get worse. What a way to start the Goddamn
morning, he thought. He was supposed to have gone to see his doctor at ten and
he knew Maggie, his wife would be pissed when he got home and told her he had
had to postpone.