Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice or any of its characters. No money is being made. I'm just attempting to prove a point to a snarky husband, but who still seems willing to read things over when I ask him to.
I would also like to acknowledge a new friend and say "Thanks" to Purdys Pal for a fabulous job of beating away writer's block and a quick turn around with her Beta-ing.
After the ninth ring, there was the distinctive 'click' of the line being answered.
"Sam!" Michael's phone-free hand flew into the air, "It's about time. I've been trying to reach you all afternoon."
Michael breathed a sigh of relief. When there still was no response from the other end of the phone line, Michael stopped pacing and cautiously asked, "Sam?"
"Hello, Michael. We're sorry we missed your calls, but we were otherwise occupied." The Russian accented voice sounded friendly, but Michael knew better. It's not a good sign when a long ago, foreign contact answers a friend's phone.
"Anatoly. You only had to put in seven years before you earned a week of vacation. Not bad," Michael made his way to the window that looked over the stairs to his front door.
Throughout life there are millions of voices that you hear, whether as background noise or from direct contact. But there are only a few that you can recognize after years of separation. The voice of friends that are missed and the voice of enemies you never want to hear again.
Cautiously Michael pulled back the corner of the window covering. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He went to the workbench and opened a drawer.
"Are you enjoying your visit to Miami? You should ask Sam to take you to Andrés. They have the best peach mojitos." Silently Michael pulled out his Beretta 92 and checked that it had a full magazine. Making sure the safety was on, he tucked the gun into the waistband of his black suit pants.
"Oh, Michael, that sounds lovely. Too bad our friend is all tied up at the moment," Anatoly laughed at the old joke, but soon changed to serious. "He's not feeling his best right now. But don't you worry; I have some friends that are keeping a close eye on him."
Michael closed his eyes and leaned his head back, making sure to stay calm. Nothing good would come of the Russian knowing exactly what Michael wanted to say or do. "What do you want, Troshev? Sam has no part in our business. You need to let him go."
"On the contrary, Michael, the three of us are very close friends, are we not?" Anatoly Troshev was sounding friendly again. "You remember those fun filled days in Petersburg? You had me believe that Michael Westen was a codename for a team of American Special Forces. You had me prepare for that team to break through the lines of government patrols and into our Defence building's protected files. When all along it was you, Michael Westen, who made your way into the government building and stole top secret documents on the North Caucasus war." Anatoly Troshev had become angrier during his monologue. Michael was picturing the Russian's long face all blotchy and red. Then he heard Anatoly take a deep breath and calm himself down.
Anatoly continued, "I had many years to think of you, Michael. Putin used me as an example. Everyone learned there was a price for their mistakes. I was sent to Siberia. I was in charge of the government railway in Yakutsk. Trust me when I say I had a LOT of time to think of you and your tricks."
"Like I said, Anatoly, this is between you and me. Holding Sam will just get you more trouble than he's worth," Michael grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. Realizing Anatoly was using Sam's phone, Michael headed to his computer in the upper part of his loft. He opened the program that would triangulate and track the SIM card from Sam's phone.
"You keep saying that Sam has no part in this. You say it with such conviction," Anatoly complemented, but couldn't keep the contempt from his voice when he added, "But as I found out, you are a world class liar!"
Michael hung his head in frustration. He had worked so hard to keep everyone safe, always putting his name out in the open to distract from those around him; all the while building a frightful reputation. Michael knew most jobs required a team to set up the ground work. After Michael finished his government assigned tasks, there would be another team to clean up. Sam Axe had, on several occasions, been with Michael to see that the job got done. Saint Petersburg was one of those times.
Michael couldn't hide his irritation, "What do you want, Anatoly?"
Anatoly laughed. "Not much really. Just for you to finish the job you're already on. But this time…this time, you do it without the support. This time, you do as your reputation says. This time, someone else will see that you are not who you say you are!" He became angrier with each sentence.
Michael watched as his computer screen focused on South Florida. He needed more time for the computer to run its program and for the cell towers to narrow down their scope.
"So you're holding Sam to prove a point? He'd appreciate knowing you think so highly of him. Just ask him, he'll tell you," Michael couldn't help but smile.
"No. He strikes me as the modest, government type," Anatoly replied, his smirk evident through the phone line. "Besides, he's not in much of a talking mood."
This was the third time Anatoly implied that Sam may not be operating with all green lights.
"What have you done to him? If you kill Sam, it won't be my reputation that hunts you down."
It wasn't an idle threat and Anatoly didn't take it as one. "It warms my heart to know that you do have loyalty to more than just your missions, Michael,"
Under different circumstances Anatoly would have enjoyed interrogating Sam Axe, but for his plan to work, the ex-SEAL served a different purpose.
"It seems that Sam had a file of information for you. He was in such a hurry to get it to you that he wasn't paying attention to the road and lost control of his car. Other than a broken wrist and slight concussion, he's fine. He'll stay that way, too, as long as you behave yourself."
Michael knew that Sam didn't lose control of his car. Knowing Anatoly Troshev, Sam had been run off the road. If Anatoly was telling the truth, the accident had to have been bad to incapacitate Sam long enough to be captured.
Michael could easily guess at Anatoly's plan. As a spy working for the government he could count on whole teams of military and government agents to lay groundwork and provide support. Now that he was burned, Sam played the part of all those men, and he played it well.
The information Sam was carrying was the ground work for their current client, Tatiana Brown – née Gouzenko. Tatiana was being stalked by someone who knew of her family's past. Her father had defected to Canada at the end of World War II. As a gift for his new country, he handed evidence of Soviet spies working in many western countries over to the RCMP. It had been the start of the cold war.
Michael was sure it wasn't a coincidence that Anatoly Troshev showed up at the exact time that Tatiana was in Miami. In the spring of 2002, Tatiana had been in Saint Petersburg to bury her aunt - her father's sister. The funeral for an immediate relative of a Soviet defector was the perfect distraction for Michael to gain access to the government building. When all was said and done, Michael had the Soviet documents he was after, he and Sam rescued Tatiana from what would have been a nasty KGB interview, and to top it all off, they had removed themselves from the country without a hitch. Michael counted it among his long list of successful missions. Until now, that is.
The information Sam had gathered would have provided leads on Tatiana's stalker. Now that Anatoly had crawled out of the woodwork, it could just as easily have pointed towards the Russian. Damn, Michael hated this. He needed Sam.
Michael watched as his computer screen narrowed into a section of central Miami. Wynwood. Michael narrowed his eyes at the screen. The fashion district didn't seem the ideal place to hold a captive.
Michael demanded, "How do I know you've got Sam? I want to speak with him."
"I've already told you, Michael. Sam isn't able to come to the phone. But he did let me borrow his Motorola. Maybe on my next call you can have your proof. Until then, don't lose your phone. It's the only number I have."
Michael heard a flutter of motion, then only the quiet background noise of people passing by. Michael guessed that Anatoly had put the phone down and walked away. He must have known that Michael was tracking the call. So why didn't he hang up? Michael looked at his screen. It was showing a stationary red dot on 5th Avenue.
Michael quickly went down the stairs to his workbench. He pulled open a drawer that held an assortment of cell phones. Picking one, he dialed a familiar number.
After three rings it was answered, "Michael, is that you?"
"Fi…"
Fiona interrupted, "Are you joining me for lunch? I could use the break."
"Fi, are you by any chance shopping on Fifth Ave?" Michael was not the type to worry. Not really.
"Of course, Michael," Fiona answered with a lilt of whimsy. "I told you about my favorite shoe store having a sale today. There's this pair of sandals, Michael…"
Michael cut her off, "Fi, I need you to do me a favor. I want you to look around and see if you can spot someone."
Fiona knew by Michael's tone that now wasn't the time to ask questions. There'd be time later, when she would be beside him, and could smack him for being so rude. "Who am I looking for?"
"Anatoly Troshev. He should be in his mid fifties, about six feet tall. He didn't have a lot of hair when I last saw him in '02, so I'm guessing he kept the comb over. And he's probably carrying some extra weight around the middle."
"So a Russian Sam with bad hair?" Fiona couldn't help but pick on the third member of their team; their friendship was so firmly entrenched in active antagonism.
"Fi," Michael warned.
Fiona sat down on one of the brown faux leather bench arrangements that seem prolific throughout all malls. They were handy enough for a quick break, but not comfortable enough to encourage a long stop. Pretending to check her hair in a compact mirror she pulled from her Dolce Gabbana bag, Fiona checked her surroundings. "No one like that here, Michael."
"If I send you some co-ordinates…?" although Michael was concerned for Sam, convincing Fiona to break from her shopping took a careful hand.
"Fine, Michael," Fiona huffed. "But you're paying for half of those sandals out of gratitude."
"Naturally," Michael agreed, and then hastily added, "Be careful."
"Really, Michael?" Fiona, not knowing the cause of Michael's worry, took offense at the implication she couldn't handle herself. Her phone gave a beep, letting her know she had just received a text message.
"Got it, Michael," Fiona picked up her shopping bags and continued down the mall. "I'll call you back when I get there."
"Thanks, Fi,"
Fiona hung up her phone and switched to its GPS app. The coordinates from Michael showed she was very close. She walked around the area but couldn't find anyone answering Troshev's description. She hopped on the escalator heading to the second floor and stepped off in the food court area. Fiona pretended to be looking for a table to sit down as she glanced at all the middle aged men. One thing about shopping malls, they're not a regular hang-out for men past the age of twenty four. There was the odd middle aged man throughout the food court, but none that didn't have bags of various purchases and a woman of similar age sitting with him. It wasn't until Fiona brushed past an empty table that she noticed an envelope simply addressed to 'Michael' leaning against the tri-fold mall brochure that all the tables had. When Fiona picked up the envelope she noticed an open cell phone. It was a black Motorola, just like Sam's.
Tentatively Fiona picked up the phone and quickly surveyed her surroundings one more time. She looked over the glass barrier beside the table. She could see her favourite shoe store on the level below.
"Michael?" Fiona asked.
There was a short pause before she heard Michael's voice, "Fi? Where are you? What did you find?"
"What's going on, Michael?" Fiona felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She didn't like it. Not one bit. "There's an envelope here and I assume it's for you. It says Michael on the front. There's no sign of your Russian friend."
"How soon can you get to the loft?" there was the distinctive sound of weaponry being dumped onto a wooden table coming through the phone. Fiona imagined Michael sorting through and picking the required guns for a job.
"I'll be there before you finish cleaning and loading those weapons." Fiona hung up and headed towards the nearest exit.