The Russian Trilogy, Book 3 (Lust, Money & Murder #6)

By Mike Wells

When Secret Service agent Elaine Brogan fails to capture Giorgio Cattoretti yet again, the Italian criminal mastermind conceives a devious plan to capture her. Join Elaine, Giorgio, Nick, Tony, Luna, Dmitry and Lexy on another "unputdownable" Lust, Money & Murder adventure!

Note: This book was previously titled: Lust, Money & Murder - Book 6, The Extraction

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Wells
• Release date: Aug 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311532190

Mike Wells

Mike Wells is an author of both walking and cycling guides. He has been walking long-distance footpaths for 25 years, after a holiday in New Zealand gave him the long-distance walking bug. Within a few years, he had walked the major British trails, enjoying their range of terrain from straightforward downland tracks through to upland paths and challenging mountain routes. He then ventured into France, walking sections of the Grande Randonnee network (including the GR5 through the Alps from Lake Geneva to the Mediterranean), and Italy to explore the Dolomites Alta Via routes. Further afield, he has walked in Poland, Slovakia, Slovenia, Norway and Patagonia. Mike has also been a keen cyclist for over 20 years. After completing various UK Sustrans routes, such as Lon Las Cymru in Wales and the C2C route across northern England, he then moved on to cycling long-distance routes in continental Europe and beyond. These include cycling both the Camino and Ruta de la Plata to Santiago de la Compostela, a traverse of Cuba from end to end, a circumnavigation of Iceland and a trip across Lapland to the North Cape. He has written a series of cycling guides for Cicerone following the great rivers of Europe.

Book preview

1

Brussels, Belgium

At the moment Elaine Brogan activated the panic button from the top of the fire tower, Raj Malik, head of U.S. Secret Service operations in Europe, was sitting in a warm, swanky Brussels restaurant. He was about to have dinner with two of his colleagues. One was the U.S. Ambassador to Belgium, and the other was an embassy attaché who was actually head of the Brussels CIA station.

When the secure phone in Raj’s breast pocket vibrated twice, with three hard little bursts, he tensed. He knew it was the signal he had been waiting for, and he hoped neither of his dinner companions had noticed.

Excuse me for a moment, he said, casually rising from the table. I need to make a quick phone call.

He stepped out into the elegant restaurant lobby, glanced around to make sure no one was paying any attention, then pulled out the phone, entered in his passcode, and opened the message. After a few seconds the screen said MESSAGE DECRYPTED. A set of numerical GPS coordinates appeared, along with a PLAY button.

As Raj raised the phone to his ear, his heart started pounding. Since sending Elaine Brogan to Russia, all hell seemed to have broken loose, but he had little idea of what was actually going on there. The intelligence coming out of St. Petersburg was sketchy due to the undercover and ultra top secret nature of the assignment. He had really gone out on a limb to set this in motion, calling in favors from the highest places. For the last few days he had started to fear for Elaine’s life and what might happen to him if she were killed.

There was a beep and the recording began to play. The female voice on the other end was weak and barely audible. This is...um...this is Elaine…Elaine Brogan and I’m...um, I’m trapped in a...in a fire tower. She gave a long pause, as if catching her breath—was that wind whistling in the background? Giorgio Cattoretti is down below, in the snow...he’s un-un-unconscious. I’m pretty sick...a wolf bit me and I think I have...hypo...hypo— Raj thought he could hear the click of her teeth chattering.

There was a second beep and the screen said: END OF DECRYPTED MESSAGE.

Raj quickly opened the phone’s map application and clicked on the GPS coordinates that had accompanied the message.

He could hardly believe his eyes. She had left Russia! According to the map, the fire tower was a few kilometer’s south of a tiny Latvian hamlet called Baltinava. Raj scrolled the map up and down. The village was just a few kilometers west of the Russian border. He guessed that she must have arrived on the highway that crossed the border and led to Kārsava, with Cattoretti on her tail, in some other vehicle.

He was astounded that she’d gotten that far. My god, he thought, she actually did it! She lured the Cat out of Russia and gotten him into a vulnerable position. The whole plan had been a long shot and he’d figured she’d probably fail. But damned if the woman hadn’t pulled it off!

For a few seconds Raj enjoyed a heady rush of relief, marveling at his own genius. But what was the next step? It appeared that the Latvian authorities had not been alerted. Otherwise Elaine would never have been forced to use the panic button in the first place.

He had originally planned to have Cattoretti extradited to the United States to face prosecution, but...

This was an unexpected opportunity. Raj stood motionless for a moment, thinking, modifying his plan, then began a series of phone calls to turn the operation in another direction.

A few minutes later, Raj went back inside the restaurant and joined his colleagues at the table. Appetizers were already being served, oysters on the half shell along with black Russian caviar.

I hope you’re not having some kind of work crisis, the Ambassador said.

Not at all, Raj replied, with a confident smile. He smeared some of the delicious black salmon eggs onto a gourmet cracker. Things could not be better.

2

One hundred kilometers south of Brussels, not far from the northwest border of France, lies the Circuit Jules Tacheny racecourse. The tight, 2,280 meter track is used for both automobile and motorbike racing.

On this particular evening, a lone, burnt orange 1971 Dodge Charger thundered around the curves, tires screeching, its 440 C.I. six-pack V8 engine roaring like a wild animal.

The driver was a man by the name of Leon Gilmour.

Leon had an unusual job, one that very few people even know exists.

He was a professional extractor.

Paid by the CIA in cash but otherwise operating totally off the grid, his highly specialized expertise was rescuing American assets who were trapped in enemy territory. Leon was not only an expert automobile driver, but could also pilot airplanes, helicopters, hot air balloons, bobsleds, locomotives, and just about any other vehicle known to man. Successful extractions demanded quick thinking, lots of improvisation, and balls of steel.

Just as he finished pushing the vintage muscle car around the track for the fifteenth lap, the secure satellite phone in his pocket started vibrating.

Leon slowed the car, pulled out the phone, and glanced at the display.

JAGUAR here, he said, giving his code name.

Proceed to EVCB immediately. Arrive no later than twenty-one hundred Zulu. Due to the double encryption, the voice sounded androgynous and hollow.

Acknowledged and confirmed, Leon said.

The connection was cut.

The extraction calls were always like this—short and direct, containing not a shred of additional information. Leon would not know who he was supposed to extract or what country they were located in until he reached EVCB, the Chièvres Air Base, a NATO airfield in Belgium operated by the U.S. Air Force 424th Squadron.

He gunned the Charger and waved to the security guard he had bribed for half an hour on the track, his mind already on his mission.

At EVCB, he suspected that he would find a B-2 Stealth Bomber, waiting there to whisk him away to the final destination.

Thirty-two minutes later, Leon arrived at the south EVCB security checkpoint, the Charger rumbling up beside the guardhouse. A home-rolled cigarette dangling from Leon’s mouth jiggled as he said, How ya doin’? and offered up the ID. It was fake, issued under a pseudonym.

As the guard checked the ID, Leon already felt the heady pulse of adrenaline in his veins, as always whenever he began an extraction operation. Extraction was the only thing in his life that truly made him feel worthwhile, and he greatly enjoyed the rush. But today the stimulating mix of excitement and danger was tainted by an underlying guilt, a guilt that had been nagging at him for a long time. A few months ago he had walked out on his wife, leaving her to fend for herself with their two small children. She didn’t even know what he did for a living, which only made his guilty feelings worse. But they had reached an irreconcilable differences point in their marriage, and, as bad as it was for the kids, he just couldn’t see any way for them to stay together.

Leon cleared his mind of all this as the guard ran a mirror around the underside of the car to check for bombs—successful extractions required intense focus and preparation.

The gate was finally opened and he was directed to Hangar 3.

He parked beside the hangar and hopped out of the car, dragging a huge duffel bag full of equipment from the trunk—weapons, tools, and clothes. He always worked alone and was particular about his gear, preferring to use his own. All of it was untraceable, cobbled together from manufacturers all over the world.

As soon as he set foot inside the cavernous hangar, he knew he’d been right about the transport. Parked squarely in the middle was a jet black B-2 Stealth Bomber, several technicians scampering around, preparing it for the mission.

Where to this time? Afghanistan? North Korea? Pakistan? Who knew?

The strange-looking, near-supersonic aircraft never ceased to fascinate him. Viewed from a bird’s eye view, it looked like a high tech boomerang. Or maybe a single, V-shaped bat wing with an engine strapped to it. From the side, with no tail to speak of, it reminded Leon of a flounder, flat on the edges but slightly rounded in the middle. He was always a little surprised the damn thing could fly at all. The aircraft was a true technological marvel. Operating in full stealth mode, it generated a signature on the enemy’s radar screen no larger than a pigeon. At night, flying at high altitude, the bat-like B-2 was both silent and invisible, completely undetectable.

Leon nodded a greeting to the mission commander, who was standing underneath the jet, next to a rollaway ladder. The MC was a stocky, brainy-looking man with a leathery face and a sharp nose. Leon had worked with him before.

The prep team was hoisting a snowmobile up into the jet’s underbelly.

Careful, the MC said, as the little vehicle was lifted up through the bomb bay doors.

So that’s what I’ll be using for the extraction operation, Leon thought. It ruled out the most of the Middle East as the extraction point.

But Leon’s gaze was drawn farther upward. There were two square-jawed men already aboard the aircraft, squatting near the doors, peering down at him with condescending expressions. Both were suited up for a parachute drop.

Leon frowned, looking questioningly at the MC. Who the hell are they?

They’re going with you on this mission.

Leon was a solo extractor. I always work alone. It’s in my contract.

Not on this mission, the MC said.

Both the goons were gazing down at Leon with smirks on their faces. One of them muttered something about the hired help, referring to Leon. He sensed they were both Delta Force, and probably assigned full time to black ops. He could spot those types at one hundred yards—he’d spent enough time with them in their training camp.

This is a split mission, the MC explained, peering at Leon over his glasses. The D-team will travel with you, execute their part of the assignment, and then you’ll execute yours. There will be no communication between you whatsoever, there are two completely separate objectives.

Two separate objectives? Leon thought. This was news to him, and quite unusual. He was tempted to call his CIA control and complain, but if the two leathernecks had their own mission to accomplish, he supposed it didn’t matter. He decided it was better not to make waves.

Suit up for a HALO insertion, the MC told him. Be prepared for fairly level but rough terrain, two feet of snow, temperature in the mid-twenties, wind gusts up to twenty-five knots.

Leon silently changed into his thermal jumpsuit. HALO stood for High Altitude Low Opening, meaning that he would bail out at 60,000 feet or so into frigid air that was probably seventy below zero, fall to a few thousand feet above ground level, and then open his chute and touch down at the target location. In other words, a standard stealth insertion behind enemy lines.

Moments later the B-2 was airborne, almost as quiet on the inside as it was on the outside. The aircraft operating in stealth mode from the moment it started its take-off roll.

The fact that they would be flying through traffic-congested Western Europe airspace in a plane that was virtually invisible and completely off the grid always made Leon a little nervous, despite the fact that the bomber had enough cutting-edge electronic equipment to detect a large moth approaching from a thousand feet out. He quickly got his gear organized and began breathing from a tank of pure oxygen to flush the nitrogen from his bloodstream, standard procedure for a HALO jump.

Our flight time will be approximately seventy three minutes, the MC said, as the four men crouched awkwardly around the bomb bay doors. Let’s get you briefed.

Leon grunted as he tried to find a comfortable position, which was impossible with the snowmobile wedged into the space. He had a steel pin in his thigh, and suffered from a number of other injuries—including gunshot wounds—which gave him trouble. Honestly, he was getting too old for this shit.

Our destination is Latvia, the MC said, handing out several satellite maps.

Leon blinked once. Latvia?

That’s affirmative, the MC said, giving him a look. Do you have a problem with that?

Latvia is a NATO country.

So what?

Leon glanced at the two D-boys, but they did not seem surprised. Apparently they had already been briefed.

This is the situation we’re dealing with, the MC went on, pulling out a map. "The asset to be extracted is trapped at the top of an abandoned forest fire lookout tower. An insurgent apparently holding her under fire from the ground. Asset is female, twenty eight years old, one hundred thirty pounds, suffering from animal bites and hypothermia.

Animal bites?

She was attacked by wolves, the MC said grimly.

Jesus, Leon muttered.

Your mission is to get her out of the fire tower and to this checkpoint here. The MC pointed to a dot on the map. This highway is one point two clicks northwest of there.

Extraction with the snowmobile?

Negative, that’s for the D-team. You’ll have to carry the asset out on your back.

Perfect, Leon thought, glaring at the two square-jawed men. They get to ride in a snowmobile and I get to carry a half-dead woman on my back across a kilometer of rugged terrain covered in two feet of snow. But it didn’t matter—he had carried plenty of incapacitated assets on his back before. Often, they had been tortured so badly they could not walk on their own.

The D-team will touch down six minutes before you do and deal with the insurgent, the MC told him. No communication can take place between any of you. You have to wait until the appropriate time and then assume the insurgent has been dealt with.

Leon nodded, glancing at the Delta team boys. Insurgent? What kind of insurgent would be in Latvia? he wondered. And how exactly were they going to deal with him?

This was indeed an odd mission—Leon had not been involved in anything like this before. All of his extractions were always in either U.S. neutral or downright U.S. hostile countries, extracting assets from safe houses or caves or makeshift prisons.

Cleanup is crucial, the MC went on. If there’s any evidence of a gunfight or struggle in the fire tower, or any clothes or other items are left behind by the asset, you have to destroy them. He gave Leon a stern look. "The Latvian government cannot know about this operation. Is that clear?"

Yes, sir. Now Leon was getting a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.

The MC continued. Your cover story is that you and the asset are tourists, a couple traveling together, romantically involved. The two D-boys snickered, but the MC ignored them. You were hiking and got caught in the snowstorm and were attacked by a pack of wolves. You found the fire tower and holed up there, hoping to ride out the storm, and your companion began to show symptoms of hypothermia. We will fake a civilian call for an ambulance that will appear to come from this village, Karpova— he pointed at the map—from a cell phone. You’ll tell the ambulance personnel that you flagged down a motorist and told him to call for help.

Leon nodded, taking all this in. Despite all the questions that popped up in his mind, he simply said, Understood.

About this female asset—you have to assume that she’s still alive, even if she does not appear to be. Hypothermia lowers the heart rate and blood pressure to the point where a heartbeat may not be detectable.

I’ve dealt with hypothermia before.

Good.

Leon hesitated. How do you know about the wolf bites?

She was able to send a secure message—GPS coordinates plus a short audio statement of the situation and her condition.

Can I listen to it?

The MC considered the question, looking doubtful.

Leon added, The more I know about her physical and mental state, the better.

Fair enough. After you get all your equipment checked out I’ll run it through your headset.

As the silent, invisible B-2 continued over Eastern Europe towards Latvia, Leon continued to be bothered by the odd nature of the assignment. Performing a stealth extraction within a NATO country, rescuing some female asset who had been trapped inside a fire tower in the wilderness by some mysterious insurgent? It did not add up.

Since the fire tower was so close to the Russian border, the only explanation that Leon could come up with was that the CIA asset had been working undercover in Russia, perhaps, and her cover had been blown and she had been chased out of the country. Maybe she had somehow gotten across the border, which was only a few kilometers away. The insurgent who was after her might be another spy—a Russian—who the CIA wanted to capture, perhaps to exchange for some other American spy who the Russians had caught.

But this was not all that was bothering Leon. The fact that there was a female involved in this mission struck a nerve. During his fifteen year career as a professional extractor, he had performed nineteen successful extractions in a row, save one.

That mission had gone terribly, horribly wrong.

And it had involved a woman.

3

Bogalusa, Louisiana

Forty Years Earlier

If there is such a thing as a born speed freak, Leon Gilmour was one of them. According to his mother, the first word he uttered was not mama or dada, but go! as in go faster!

This singular moment occurred when little Leon was sitting in his mother’s lap, riding aboard a Louisiana Bayou fan boat that was flying across the alligator-infested marshlands at forty mph. Leon’s dad owned and operated a tour company—Bayou Bob’s Real Swamp Tours. It didn’t matter that there was nothing real about Bayou Bob, including his name. Though he did have Cajun ancestors, Richard Gilmour had been born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee and only moved to Louisiana to start the tour business.

In any case, with the wind blowing through his hair, the roar of the fan boat motor in his ears, and the Spanish moss hanging from the trees, whipping within inches of his chubby face, little Leon felt like he was moving at light speed.

As Leon grew up he had little interest in his father’s business, despite Richard’s best hopes. Leon harbored dreams of becoming a fighter pilot, an astronaut, a race car driver, and any other profession that involved high velocity and significant risk. He was a hyperactive kid, and with his long, swept back hair, his mother often joked that he looked like he was going a hundred miles per hour standing still.

Leon was curious about all forms of vehicles, and his curiosity often got him into trouble, sometimes with the police. One night he scaled the fence of a construction site and drove a bulldozer around the lot, just for the fun of it, and when he couldn’t figure out how to bring the monstrous yellow tractor to a stop, he ended up leveling a chain link fence. When he went on a vacation with one of his friend’s families to Colorado, he stole a bobsled and nearly got himself killed barreling down a mountain ice-run unchecked. One of his classmate’s father was a crop duster and, impressed with Leon’s mechanical ability, taught him how to pilot the small single-engine airplane. The man also owned a helicopter, a hang-glider and a hot air balloon, and taught Leon how to pilot those, too. But once Leon mastered the operation of any given vehicle, he became bored with it, no matter how fast it went.

He was also fascinated by the sheer power and weight of locomotives. He often hung around the local railroad yard, watching the wagons be connected and disconnected and occasionally placing a penny to be flattened on the rails. One of the engineers eventually taught him how to operate one of the huge, two hundred ton diesel engines.

The idea of transforming the awesome, cost-free power of the wind into high speed travel over water also interested Leon. Although his family owned no sailboats, he found that it was easy to get himself aboard one on Lake Pontchartrain by volunteering to crew in the regattas. He learned to sail a variety of vessels, everything from a fourteen foot catamaran to a thirty-six foot yacht, but eventually got bored with that, too.

He also liked building vehicles that would go fast. By the time Leon was twelve, he had constructed a go-kart, a mini-bike, and a motorized skateboard from scratch. He enjoyed tinkering with gasoline engines and was good at fixing them up and taking off the governors to raise their RPM. He had what one of his teachers called natural mechanical aptitude.

But Leon Gilmour was no more interested in school than he was his father’s swamp tour business. Going fast, or building things that went fast, were the only things that touched his hot button.

Or so he thought.

When Leon was seventeen and began his last year of high school, he decided that he had no choice but to go to college. It was a last minute decision, prompted one hot and humid August evening when his dad pointed at the front door and said, Boy, if you decide not to study past high school, the moment you graduate, you’re on your own. You got that?

His father’s words were like a splash of cold water in the face. Leon realized that he had to do something practical, so he buckled down and started studying hard, making A’s in his math and physics courses. At the time, he had gotten involved in stock car racing and his father had painted a grim picture of his possible future as a Formula One racer, his latest dream. That profession required money, loads of money. Leon slowly and painfully accepted the fact that his vision probably would never manifest itself, and so the next best thing would be to be an automotive engineer.

He decided that he would go to Louisiana State University and major in mechanical engineering. That way he at least might be able to get a job on one of the F1 teams and be close to the sport.

Leon’s college experience was a disappointment, to say the least. He was assigned a room with a hairy, roly-poly pothead with the unlikely name of Dune. The young man was twenty-six years old and had been finding himself ever since graduating from high school. That venture had apparently been unsuccessful, so Dune finally decided to go back to school and, like Leon, become a mechanical engineer.

Despite the fact that Dune was stoned most of the time, he made straight A’s in all his classes, which of course were exactly the same classes that Leon was taking. This undermined Leon’s confidence—he was studying all hours, working endless sets of homework problems, yet could only manage C’s and D’s. He simply could not concentrate, could barely sit still in class, which had always been a problem for him in school. And he missed his car—his dad forced him to sell it to help with the tuition payments, saying that he would need to stay on campus anyway and stick to the books. Nearly every day Leon seriously considered dropping out, thought about calling his father and saying, I’m finished, Dad, I just can’t take this anymore.

Still, Leon forced himself to keep plugging away at it, and when he talked to his parents on the phone, he pretended everything was going well.

Part of his problem was loneliness. It slowly ate away at his soul. Although Leon was tall, muscular and good looking in a bad boy kind of way, he had no idea what to say to girls, as they usually weren’t interested in Formula One racing or gasoline engines. Not that he had any time for females, anyway, not with the mountains of homework he had to do every night. He would often gaze longingly at them out of his dorm room window as they strolled along the sidewalks, carefree, laughing and chatting to each other about the last party they had attended. Most of the prettiest ones were liberal arts majors who never seemed to have to study except at the end of the semester, when they wrote their term papers and prepared for their exams. According to Dune, they were all here to get their Mrs degrees, looking for would-be doctors and lawyers to marry.

Don’t worry, Dune snickered one day while they watched a group of gorgeous coeds saunter by on the sidewalk, giggling and chattering to each other. When most of those airheads graduate, they’ll be husbandless, flipping burgers, begging us to let them ride in our Porsches.

Leon had his doubts.

As Leon began his second semester of engineering school, he began to feel like he was aboard a rudderless ship, one that was drifting farther and farther off course.

He was miserable with his monotonous studies and his monk-like existence. Although Dune seemed to enjoy his classes, Leon could tell that his hairy roommate was miserable, too. Tolerating four long years of this torture seemed impossible.

A glimmer of hope was sparked one day when Dune said, Hey, man, there’s a ski trip to Colorado over spring break—think you can swing it? All kinds of hot chicks going along. We’ll definitely get laid!

Leon wasn’t sure about getting laid, as Dune always put it, either, but the thought of escaping the tedium of LSU and Louisiana for a week and ripping down the ski slopes was like a breath of badly-needed fresh air. He loathed asking his dad for the money for the trip, but found his father surprisingly receptive. You’ve earned yourself a vacation, son. We know it’s hard, and we’re both very proud of you.

At that point, Leon had no idea how that simple little school-organized ski trip would change the entire course of his life.

The ski outing was open to the entire university. About sixty students signed up, of all ages and from all departments—there were freshmen, seniors, graduate students, law students, nursing students, and medical students. It took two busses to transport the LSU group from Hayden Airport up to the lodges at Steamboat Springs, where they all were assigned double rooms. During the ride, most of the students were already partying, discreetly passing around bottles and flasks.

Leon and Dune wasted no time renting their equipment. It was a fine afternoon, the sky perfectly clear after several days of heavy snowfall. The skiing conditions were perfect.

Just as they got in line for the lift, they both spotted a snow bunny who had just rented her equipment, too. When she walked by both Leon and Dune were momentarily speechless. She was tall and had striking blue eyes and luxurious blonde hair. The girl was wearing a lime green ski suit that hugged her curves like a second skin. She had the tight yet voluptuous figure of a centerfold model.

She’s only made for one thing, Dune muttered as she walked by, and it ain’t skiing.

Leon laughed.

With a body like that, she’ll definitely get her Mrs degree. By the way, she’s in our group.

Really? Leon had not noticed her on the plane or the bus.

Yeah, her name is Sherry, a freshman in Education. I think she’s a cheerleader, too, but I’m not sure.

The latter certainly fit—Leon thought the girl seemed like that type.

Leon and Dune took the gondola straight to Thunderhead Peak. Leon couldn’t wait to rip down the black diamond slope. He had been skiing only once before, when he was sixteen, but had achieved an admirable mastery of the sport, along with snowboarding, in only a few days.

Dune was also a competent skier, supposedly, having lived two years in Boulder. But as usual, he was a bit wasted, and he had trouble getting his boots and skis adjusted properly. Leon helped him. Are you sure you should ski in your condition? Leon asked.

Dune giggled. Dude, you know I do everything better when I’m high.

Well, just be careful, okay?

As they were about to head down the mountain, the girl in the tight lime-green outfit—Sherry—stepped off the gondola with a group of her friends.

When she put on her skis, she moved clumsily, nearly falling down a couple of times. She was obviously a beginner.

What the hell is she doing way up here? Leon asked.

Dune pointed to the right. There’s a bunny slope that winds all the way around the mountain. He chuckled. Takes about half a day to get to the bottom.

Leon and