by Vince Flynn
The only reason Krupin would want access to Pakistani warheads was because they couldn’t be traced to him. And the only reason that he would want nuclear weapons that couldn’t be traced to him was because he planned to actually use them.
Sweat broke across Azarov’s back but his expression remained opaque. He had killed many men in the service of Krupin, but this was something very different.
“You seem reticent, Grisha. Is the simple task of killing one man beyond you? Is this to be the first time you fail?”
“If so, I would be only one entry on a very long list of dead men who tried to move against Rapp.”
“But you’re not one of those men. You’re unique.”
While undoubtedly intended as flattery, what Krupin said was true. Azarov was an Olympic-level athlete with a lifetime of training behind him. Since leaving the military, he had enjoyed a constant stream of the best instructors the private sector had to offer. Human-performance coaches from renowned European universities, championship marksmen, and world-class mixed martial artists, to name only a few. Further, he was taking a regular cocktail of performance-enhancing drugs designed and administered by a German doctor who had been banned from professional sports. It was something that he suspected would kill him one day. Things that burned bright burned short.
“I am almost ten years younger than Rapp and have suffered far fewer injuries over my lifetime,” Azarov said. “I’ve studied his techniques, psychology, and athletic background, while it’s unlikely he’s even aware that I exist.”
Krupin smiled for the first time in their meeting. “It’s nice to hear the confidence back in your voice, Grisha. It seems to become more muted every time I see you.”
“It’s not confidence, Mr. President. I have surprise on my side, as well as my youth, training, and, frankly, my drug regimen. Other factors favor him.”
“What other factors?”
“Another decade of experience. A history of surviving situations more dire than I’ve been involved in.”
“You’re far too valuable for me to risk you lightly, Grisha. And I wouldn’t be using you now if it wasn’t critical.”
“The fact remains that he has been tested like no one currently alive and has demonstrated no discernible weaknesses. His enemies—most recently the very talented Louis Gould—are all dead.”
“Very good,” Krupin said. “Confidence is desirable, but arrogance is the refuge of fools. And again, I’m taking your involvement in this very seriously. I understand the risks to you and I’m designing the operation in such a way as to mitigate those risks.”
Azarov nodded respectfully but couldn’t bring himself to thank the man. He was nothing to Krupin. A tool, to be used and discarded the moment it became convenient to do so.
Once again, he found himself caught in the trap he’d walked into so enthusiastically as a young man. The question was, would this be the time he failed to escape?
CHAPTER 8
OVER ZIMBABWE
AFRICA
“CAN I get you a soda, Anna?”
The young girl just shook her head and clung to her mother, staring at Rapp with a mix of fear and shock that was powerful enough to make him look away.
They’d been in the air for just over an hour, most of which he’d spent in the cockpit coordinating his teams in Pakistan. Dangerous moves were being made and the window to stop them was going to close fast. Preliminary intel was already coming in about a possible attempt on a nuke by al Badr in Faisalabad. Kennedy and Scott Coleman were trying to get details and corroborate them through their contacts on the ground.
“How about a cookie?” Rapp said, deciding to try again. “I think we have some in the galley.”
Another nervous shake of the head.
The girl was terrified of him. And why wouldn’t she be? Thank God Thompson had been the one to pop the Arabs. If Rapp had been forced to stand in front of her and pull the trigger on those psychopaths, she’d probably be hiding under one of the plane’s seats.
“I know that what happened today was really scary,” Rapp said, leaning a little closer to her. “Most people in the world are good. But there are some who aren’t.”
She continued to stare, but the fear seemed to diminish a bit. She was tough, like her mother. And, in truth, like her father.
“How do you know which ones are bad?” she said finally.
Rapp suppressed a smile that would be inappropriate given the gravity of the subject. At least she was talking to him. That was a serious victory after what he’d just put her through.
“The bad ones want to cheat you. Or steal from you. And a few—like the men back there—might even want to hurt you. The good ones try to help.”
“What about that American man? Kent. Is he good?”
Rapp rubbed his beard for a few seconds but couldn’t come up with an answer. He considered lying but couldn’t bring himself to do it. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been born into this world but it was a reality she couldn’t escape.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“But—”
“Anna,” her mother admonished. “He said he doesn’t know.”
The young girl looked at her feet. “Okay.”
“Guess what?” Rapp said, feeling a bit guilty about not having a better answer for the girl. “I think you should go introduce yourself to the pilots. And tell them I said to let you fly.”
She glanced at her mother, who nodded, and then disappeared up the aisle. Whether it was because she was interested in getting her hands on the plane’s controls or to get away from him, he wasn’t sure. Probably a little of both.
“Sometimes children ask hard questions,” Claudia said.
“Yeah.”
He propped his elbows on his knees and got his first real look at her since he’d arrived in Africa. The tan she’d had when he’d last seen her in Greece had faded and her pale skin accented dark, almond-shaped eyes. She was thirty-six, but the disparity in their ages looked greater. Decades of desert sun, sandstorms, and memories of dead friends and enemies conspired to make him look older than he was.
The plane lurched and Claudia glanced back toward the cockpit. When she looked back at him, it wasn’t with the expression he’d expected. In fact, he couldn’t read her features at all.
“They’re actually letting her fly.”
“Are they?”
“People do what you tell them to, don’t they?”
“Most of them.”
“And the ones who don’t?”
He leaned back, suddenly wanting to put some distance between them. “You were with Louis for a long time. I should be no mystery to you.”
She switched to French, a language she was more comfortable with. “No. You’re nothing like Louis.”
He wasn’t sure how to take that. Did she see him as better? Worse? Her husband was a remorseless sociopath who would kill anyone for the right payday. Rapp was very much not that person. But that wasn’t necessarily evident from the outside. In fact, he’d killed far more men than her husband had. The difference was in the subtleties of motivation.
“Thank you for saving us,” she said finally. “Again.”
He shook his head. “It was my fault, Claudia. It shouldn’t have been possible to find you. I missed something.”
“No one can truly disappear. It’s something I know well from my time in . . .” Her voice faded for a moment. “Your business.”
“Still, I—”
“Some of Louis’s enemies have tremendous resources, Mitch. There’s only so much that can be done.”
He didn’t respond, reluctant to tell her that this was about him, not her dead husband. And while she was wrong about motivation, she was right about the issue of resources. The CIA was the world’s expert at this, and the men who had been assigned to her case were very aware that he was watching. The idea that a Russian organized crime outfit or ISIS had the sophistication to pull this off was incredibly far-fetched. They’d n
eed someone inside the Agency or an organization with enough brute-force capacity to sift through every passport issued, house sold, and bank account opened worldwide.
No, this screamed Russian intelligence. But why? It was a given that they had a keen interest in who controlled Pakistan, but how would exacerbating the lack of security around that country’s nuclear arsenal help their cause? It seemed like too much risk for not enough reward. Even for Maxim Krupin.
“I don’t know what to do, Mitch. I deserve this. I didn’t pull the trigger on Louis’s contracts, but I might as well have. I participated and I benefited. I’m still benefiting. I have tens of millions of dollars in my bank account. All blood money. But Anna is innocent. She has to be protected.”
Rapp let out a long breath. He wasn’t sure why he’d thought he could get around this. Wishful thinking wasn’t normally one of his failings.
“This wasn’t about you, Claudia. Someone wanted to distract me.”
“Why would they use me to do that? You’ve already given me a new life. You owe me nothing. Why would they think you’d care?”
Because he did. But he wasn’t ready to say that.
“I don’t know.”
“If this wasn’t about Louis and the men involved are dead, does that mean you’re taking us home?”
“No. I need to make sure your identity hasn’t hit the street and that no one’s going to try to follow up on this. The plane’s going to drop me off and then take you to Washington. A very trustworthy man named Mike Nash is going to pick you up from the airport and take you to my apartment. You’ll be safe there while I work this out.”
“And by that you mean while you kill everyone involved.”
If he’d been talking to his late wife, this would be where the fancy footwork started. But there was no point. Claudia understood how this worked.
“Yes.”
“Can I help?”
“I think I can handle it, but thank you.”
“I can help, you know. As ashamed as I am to say this, I was good at what I did.”
“I know,” he said honestly. “And if I wasn’t one hundred percent confident in my team, I’d be taking you up on your offer.”
She reached out and laid a hand on top of his. “I should be dead or in prison, Mitch. Instead, I live in the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen, in the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. Anna has a wonderful school and wonderful new friends. I want to find a way to repay you.”
Rapp’s phone chimed and he glanced down at it, expecting to find an update on the CIA crew being brought in to clean up the mess he’d left. Instead, it was a threat. But not from the Pakistanis or Russians. It was a warning that if he didn’t make a decision in the next hour, his kitchen counters would be topped with pink Formica.
Rapp glanced up at Claudia. “Is that a serious offer?”
“Of course it is.”
He turned the phone and showed her the text. “I’m finishing up building a house outside D.C. and this woman’s driving me crazy. I’m going to set up a meeting between the two of you for tomorrow. After that, the only thing I ever want to hear on this subject is that the key’s waiting for me under the mat.”
CHAPTER 9
ISLAMABAD
PAKISTAN
GRISHA Azarov strode purposefully across the lobby of the Islamabad Marriott. It was after midnight, so it was virtually empty. A haggard-looking English couple was giving instructions to a bellboy in the corner and an attractive young woman was manning the reception desk. In his peripheral vision, he spotted a man coming through the door behind her but immediately registered him as benign. The hotel manager.
“It’s nice to have you back, sir.”
Azarov nodded politely, but didn’t stop. He suspected that the man had stayed this late solely to provide that greeting and to make certain that the details relating to Azarov’s arrival had been attended to.
As expected, the elevator was empty and he inserted the key for the top floor. As was customary, the hotel’s most luxurious suite had been rented for him in the name of the Russian energy consulting firm he was the president of. The company had been bankrolled by Maxim Krupin with the help of the oligarchs who now made up a significant portion of his client list.
It was a cover that allowed him to take in enormous amounts of money with little scrutiny, travel to dangerous parts of the world without raising suspicion, and meet with wealthy, powerful men unnoticed. After more than a decade in business, the cover operation had become, for all intents and purposes, real. He had hired top talent in the areas of economics and geology, expanded his clientele to include such corporations as Exxon, BP, and Aramco, and gained enough expertise in the field to hold his own in a roomful of petroleum engineers.
Azarov exited the elevator and opened the door to his suite with the card key he’d been sent. The main room didn’t feel much different than the lobby—an ornate mix of figured marble, rich wood, and expensive rugs.
The floor at the center was sunken and contained a conversation pit consisting of chairs and sofas surrounding a glass coffee table. A lone man rose from the chair farthest from the door, bowing slightly in greeting.
Marius Postan was fifty-one, balding, and wearing an expensive but ill-fitting suit that hinted at constant fluctuations in weight. He was another of Krupin’s extra-governmental “advisors” and had been in the employ of the Russian president even longer than Azarov himself had. His sphere of influence was more the technical side.
“It’s my understanding that you have information for me?” Azarov said, walking to the bar. A bottle of Blanton’s Gold Edition was waiting for him along with an elaborate arrangement of fresh flowers and a personal note from the manager.
“I think you’ll want a clear head for our conversation,” Postan said.
“On the contrary, Marius. I find our time together much more palatable with a bourbon in my hand.”
While Azarov had been warned that the man would be waiting for him, he hadn’t been told what they were to discuss. Not that it was difficult to guess. When Postan showed up in person, it meant that there was news too sensitive to transmit even over heavily encrypted lines.
“Can I assume that you’re here to discuss the upcoming Rapp operation?”
Postan nodded and Azarov decided to exercise a bit of curiosity. “Before we start, Marius, why don’t you tell me what happened in South Africa?”
The man’s eyes flitted nervously around the expansive room. He had been responsible for planning the operation, under the watchful eye of Maxim Krupin. The problem was that while Krupin tended to take full credit for success, he was just as quick to distance himself from failure.
“Ilya Gusev was killed along with the two Iraqi men he’d been assigned. An independent contractor who goes by the name Kent Black has disappeared. I’ve not yet been able to determine what happened in any detail.”
“I see,” Azarov said, taking a seat on one of the sofas and spreading his arms across the back. “Would you like to know?”
Postan remained standing, staring down at him. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a simple question. Would you like to know what happened?”
“I don’t see what—”
Azarov held up a hand, silencing the man. “Kent Black’s real name is Steve Thompson. Early in his career as an independent, he worked on an operation in Nicaragua. Louis Gould was representing a competing interest. Thompson would have researched him enough to recognize his former wife and to know that Mitch Rapp has at least a peripheral relationship with her. Thompson is neither stupid nor suicidal, so I think we can assume that he contacted Rapp to make sure the move against Claudia Gould wouldn’t be something that would bring about CIA retaliation.”
Postan’s eyes widened. “Have you spoken to Krupin of this?”
Azarov shook his head. “This is the first I’ve heard of Thompson’s involvement.”
“Then what you’re saying is nothing more than specula
tion.”
Azarov didn’t answer, instead sipping his drink and appraising the man. As much as he disliked Postan, he couldn’t help feeling a hint of sympathy. These kinds of operations were outside his area of expertise. Azarov himself should have been consulted but the president’s damnable obsession with secrecy had prevented it. And now they found themselves in a very dangerous—and entirely self-inflicted—situation.
“Yes,” Azarov said, uninterested in arguing. “Just speculation.” He held out a hand. “You have something for me?”
Postan fished a flash drive from his pocket and handed it over.
“The plans for taking Rapp in Faisalabad are all on here?”
“Yes. He’ll be arriving in Pakistan soon. Our operations have been going much more smoothly since he’s been gone and there’s a possibility that we’ll have to suspend them if you don’t—”
Azarov held up a hand, once again silencing the man. “If everything is on here as you say, there’s no need for explanation.”
Postan’s nervousness suddenly turned to anger. He was wealthy, powerful, and unaccustomed to being spoken to with anything but deference. Moreover, he was a vindictive, control-obsessed man prone to flying into sudden rages. By all reports, both his staff and family were terrified of him.
“You think you’re above all this, don’t you, Grisha? That Krupin thinks of you as some kind of son. I assure you that he does not. Do you believe you can do for him what I can? The shell corporations, the money laundering, the constant adjustments that have to be made to keep up with technology and international law? You’re just a killer, Grisha. The most common of men . . .”
Postan continued his diatribe, but Azarov had stopped listening. He rose from the sofa and walked behind the wet bar at the back of the room. Crouching as though looking for ice, he pulled a custom-built pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his left arm.
“Are you hearing me, Grisha? Are you even capable of understanding what I’m saying?”
Azarov stood and smiled politely. “I’m doing my best. Please continue.”