PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Helen took one look at Lucas Miller and knew the man was in poor shape. His left arm was wrapped in bandages and his right leg was in a heavy cast supported by a sling. But it was Lucas Miller’s face that was the worst. It was a mottled mess of purple bruises mixed with deep lacerations.
She got close to him while Donovan stood at the foot of the bed.
“Mr. Miller, I’m Special Agent Charlotte Johnson. I’m with the FBI,” she said, showing him her credentials.
Miller turned his head to her. “Thank you . . . for coming,” he said, his voice dangerously weak. “I didn’t think . . . you would come so fast.”
“Do you have everything you need, Mr. Miller?”
“Lucas . . . Call me Lucas. Yes, I . . . They’ve taken very, very good care of me,” Miller said. “Did . . . Did you know my doctor’s an American?”
“Dr. Shepherd? Yes. I’ve met her. She’s fabulous. You’re lucky to have her.”
“Water? Please,” Miller asked.
Helen grabbed the plastic cup and brought the straw to Miller’s lips. When he was done, she replaced the cup on the table and said, “I’m sorry about your brother, Lucas. You have our most sincere condolences.”
“Thanks.”
It was obvious Lucas was fighting to stay awake. The IV drip feeding him pain medicine was the only thing that kept him from great physical suffering. As for his mental health, there was no doubt in Helen’s mind that William’s death must be stabbing deep into Lucas’s heart and that the poor man must be grappling with an enormous burden of survivor’s guilt.
“Lucas, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“No . . . Not at all. Ask me anything . . . Anything you want,” he said.
“Thank you, Lucas. Dr. Shepherd was quite protective of you and only allowed us a few minutes of your time. So let me go straight to the point. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you employed by UR Real News? And do you live in North Macedonia?”
“Yes . . . to both questions.”
“Why were you in Prague, Lucas?”
“We were . . . supposed to meet with a Swiss banker named . . . Raphaël Feldmann,” Miller said.
“Tell me more about him.”
“What . . . What do you . . . want to know?”
“Why did you want to meet him? What was he to you?”
“He’s . . . a crook,” Miller said. “We believe Feldmann laundered millions of dollars for some of Europe’s most corrupt politicians. He . . . also deals with Russian oligarchs.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
Miller looked like he might pass out any moment.
“He . . . He somehow found out he was being set up,” Miller said, but he was out of breath, and his voice sounded like a low growl. “But Feldmann . . . He didn’t do this. They killed him, too.”
“Who did, Lucas? Who killed your brother and Feldmann?”
“Powerful people. I . . . I’m not sure, but it’s possible whoever controlled Feldmann killed him to shut him up.”
Helen swallowed hard. Miller didn’t know who controlled Feldmann, but she did.
Treadstone.
But Treadstone hadn’t done this. Why would they? Levi Shaw, the director of Operation Treadstone, had personally called DNI Russell and asked for his assistance. For once, Treadstone hadn’t shit the bed. Either someone was trying to frame Treadstone, or she and Donovan were looking at this the wrong way.
“Was there someone else you were supposed to meet with? Any projects you were working on that could have led to you being targeted?” Donovan asked, speaking for the first time.
Donovan had come to the same conclusion she had. Treadstone was a dead end. They weren’t behind John Dixon’s killing.
“Yes. The Mexicans,” Miller said as his eyes fluttered. “The cartels.”
Helen looked at Donovan, but the puzzled expression on her partner’s face confirmed he was as perplexed as she was.
“Mexican drug cartels? I’m not sure I understand. Can you elaborate?” Helen asked, leaning toward him to make sure she could hear his reply.
Miller let out a long, exhausted sigh and seemed to sink deeper into his bed.
“Lucas, tell me about the Mexicans?”
“Proyecto de la Verdad. The . . . Truth . . . Project,” Lucas said, suddenly opening his eyes and grabbing her arm with his right hand. “The . . . cartels. You have to look into this . . . Everything . . . All our . . . research . . . is at . . . my apartment . . . in Skopje.”
“Skopje? In North Macedonia?” Donovan asked.
Lucas weakly bobbed his head, then closed his eyes once again. “Yes. Paper files . . . only. Too . . . dangerous. Milan . . . Vel . . . Velkoski. He . . . He knows, too.”
“What is Proyecto de la Verdad about? Who’s Milan Velkoski?” Helen asked. “Lucas? Lucas?”
She gently shook his shoulder, but she got no response.
“We should go,” Donovan suggested. “Let’s write this up and send our report to headquarters.”
Helen looked at the monitor. Lucas’s heart rate was fine. He was just dog-tired, and with the pain medication coming through the IV drip, Lucas wouldn’t wake up anytime soon.
“You’re right, let’s go,” she said, heading to the door, nodding at the Czech police officer who was standing by it. “I have a feeling I’m about to visit a country I’ve never seen before.”
“Yeah. North Macedonia wasn’t on my bucket list, either.”