Keira had tracked down a work visa that had been issued just over eight years ago in Caterina Mateja’s name, but it had never been renewed. And since the original visa had expired long since, the holder of the visa should have returned to her home country. But there was no record of her on any flight or boat leaving the United States. Nothing Keira could find, and she had access to just about every data file.
Lots of people overstayed their US visas, dropping off the grid and becoming illegal immigrants. The federal government wasn’t all that good about tracking people who overstayed their welcome, even after 9/11.
“Caterina Mateja just resurfaced in a totally different case.”
* * *
Angelina stood at attention in Captain Zale’s tiny office in the palace, off a small, out-of-the-way corridor. She was worried the king’s intervention on her behalf only made things worse where her commanding officer was concerned, but she was determined to make her request anyway.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Captain Zale’s tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t the warm, approving tone she’d grown to expect from him.
“I would like to be involved in the interrogation of the prisoner, sir,” she said, not beating around the bush. “On my own time, of course. I am not asking to be relieved of duty for this.”
Captain Zale made a sound of impatience and said curtly, “Sit down, Mateja.” When she was seated, he said abruptly, “I owe you an apology.”
“Sir?” This was the last thing she’d expected.
“No one appreciates being reprimanded. And especially not by one’s supreme commander,” he added dryly, referring to the king. “But I deserved the reprimand.”
“Sir?”
“Do not keep saying ‘sir’ as if you do not follow what I am saying,” he said testily. “I know you understand.” He grimaced. “Perhaps I was hard on you because I blamed myself.”
“Si—” She stopped herself before she could say it. “Blame yourself for what, sir?”
“For not telling you the name of the person I was sending to relieve you.” One corner of his mouth twitched into the beginning of a rueful smile. “I should have told you. Easy to see that now, of course. If I had, you would never have dropped your guard with Tcholek. You would have been suspicious of him from the first. Then we would have three to interrogate instead of only one.”
“I do blame myself for that, sir,” she said quietly. “For dropping my guard. Or I did, until—” She caught herself before she could blurt out Alec’s name, and changed what she was going to say. “Until the king told me I could not let it affect me. I must put the killing behind me and move forward with the same certainty of purpose I have always had. He said I must trust my instincts. Always.”
“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—”