by Vince Flynn
When they returned to the cell, Rapp kicked the overturned chair into a corner and faced Maslick. He’d never really paid much attention to how massive the man was, but now it was impossible to ignore the thick shoulders, powerful chest, and dinner-plate hands.
“Has Dr. Kennedy signed off on this, Mitch?”
“Shit. We both know you’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”
“No lie there.”
With that, he threw a right cross that connected just below Rapp’s cheekbone. He was spun around by the force of the blow and slammed face-first into the wall behind him. It was all that kept him upright as blood started to flow from his nose, mingling with Jesem’s as it soaked into the man’s T-shirt.
Steadying himself with one hand, he turned to face the Delta man again.
“Is that all you’ve got?”
CHAPTER 29
EAST OF MOSCOW
RUSSIA
GRISHA Azarov glanced at the map reading out on his phone and turned left at the end of a half-constructed apartment complex. The traffic was almost nonexistent, giving him an opportunity to examine the crumbling structure.
A number of makeshift tents had cropped up beneath the graffiti-covered concrete that made up the first floor. The inhabitants were a perfect example of Maxim Krupin’s subjects. Cold and hungry, but still loyal. Still waiting for him to deliver on his promise to once again make the world tremble at their feet.
The basset hound in the passenger seat spotted something of interest and barked joyously as they moved onto a broad avenue. Azarov had requested that the bomb-sniffing dog be waiting for him when he landed. Fortunately, it had turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. The animal’s well-trained nose had turned up nothing in its examination of the car Krupin had provided.
Another four kilometers brought him to a nondescript glass-and-steel building on an even more nondescript side street. He passed by the entrance leading into the parking garage, driving another block before parallel parking next to the sidewalk. The hound’s tail wagged excitedly when Azarov opened the door but then went still when he frowned and shook his head. “You have to stay here. I won’t be long.”
It seemed to understand his words and curled up on the seat, closing its eyes. He’d never owned an animal before, but it was hard not to acknowledge the appeal of having a friend that would never turn on him, spy on him, or try to kill him. Now that Olga was gone, maybe it was something he should look into. He could pay Cara to take care of it when he was gone. Another excuse to see her without exposing his feelings.
Azarov traversed the sidewalk and entered the lobby he’d driven past. As always, the front desk was empty and he went directly to the lone elevator at the rear. It opened automatically at his approach and he stepped in. There were no buttons, so he just stood there, moving a hand subtly toward his gun as he began to descend.
The elevator had been designed as a death trap. It could be dropped, filled with gas, or simply fired upon when the doors opened. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to hope that none of those options were currently on the table.
When he came to a stop and the doors slid back, the spec ops unit he half expected to find was absent. Instead, he saw nothing but the familiar gray corridor broken by a single door on the right. He listened to the sound of his footsteps and the hum of the cameras tracking his progress as he approached the door. It, too, slid open and he entered, but then stopped short before fully crossing the threshold.
The large conference table that normally dominated the room was gone and a massive desk had been placed near the rear wall. Sitting behind it was Maxim Krupin.
“Mr. President,” Azarov said, not bothering to hide his surprise at the man’s presence. “I wasn’t expecting you to conduct this meeting personally.”
Azarov studied the room as he spoke, looking for any hint that this was a trap. But there was nothing. In light of that and the fact that he hadn’t been relieved of his firearm, it seemed that no attack was imminent. Whether this would be a positive development in the long run remained to be seen.
The Russian president’s physical presence suggested that the situation was even more dangerous than Azarov’s worst-case projection. The fact that Krupin would agree to leave the security of the Moscow and resurface in a forgotten FSB outpost was extremely telling. Not only was he unwilling to include his most trusted advisors in this meeting, he didn’t even want to give Azarov his orders inside the walls of the Kremlin.
“Sit,” Krupin said simply.
Azarov took a chair in front of the desk and the president turned a laptop toward him.
“Do you know what this is?”
The image on screen was immediately recognizable. “A map of Saudi Arabia.”
“And the highlighted area?”
“The country’s most significant oil-producing region. The majority of Saudi Arabia’s oil comes from there.”
“Historically, the Saudis have acted as swing producers,” Krupin said, lecturing Azarov on matters he was fully aware of from his cover as an energy consultant. “But they’ve ceased acting responsibly in that role. They insist on producing at full capacity, depressing energy prices worldwide.”
“They’re committed to keeping renewables economically nonviable and American production unprofitable.”
Krupin tapped a key, switching to a photo of a room with a floor covered in bomb-making equipment. “And this?”
Along one wall were six medium-size wooden crates. It wasn’t hard to guess what was in them, and Azarov felt his mouth go dry. “I assume that your operations in Pakistan were successful and that the boxes contain fissile material from Pakistani nuclear warheads. It appears that the material is being used to build dirty bombs.”
It could have been much worse, Azarov tried to remind himself. At least these weren’t the sophisticated nuclear bombs he had feared Krupin was building. “Beyond that, I can only speculate.”
“Please do.”
“You’ll place them at strategic points in the Saudi oil fields and detonate them. It will completely shut down extraction and refining in the area for the foreseeable future.”
“Very good, Grisha. But you make one mistake. It won’t be me placing the bombs, it will be you. Our military forecasters say a front is coming in that will create ideal wind conditions.”
“Of course,” Azarov said numbly.
“With the exception of your failure to kill Mitch Rapp, you’ve served me well. This will be your final task. When you return, I’ll give you a position of power in my administration. Or, if you prefer, I will make you an oligarch. Dmitry Utkin’s assets are still under my control. Since you were the one who killed him, it would be fitting for you to be the one to inherit his empire.”
“I’m not sure I’m the wisest choice for this operation, Mr. President. After my confrontation with Scott Coleman, it’s possible that the CIA knows my identity. Surely you have access to skilled men that the Americans are unaware of.”
Krupin nodded thoughtfully. “It’s possible that they know who you are. But it’s also possible that Irene Kennedy’s suspicions go well beyond the matter of your identity. Russia’s future turns on this single event, Grisha. Will we be great again or will we rot and fade into irrelevance? I can’t trust something this important to anyone else.”
“But if the Americans have suspicions, they may be able to trace this back to you. Certainly the fact that spiking oil prices will benefit Mother Russia won’t be lost on the rest of the world.”
“And what will they do, Grisha? With Saudi Arabia’s reserves largely inaccessible, our production capacity will become even more critical to the world economy. And our nuclear arsenal precludes any military action against us. With the money that comes flooding in, I’ll be able to retake the breakaway states that were stolen from us. I’ll restore Russia to its rightful place in the world order.”
“Mr. President, I must—”
“Do you know what the people want?”
Krupin said, cutting him off. “Not full bellies. Not warm beds. They want glory. They want power and respect. They want to be part of something great so that they can tell themselves that their pathetic little lives matter.”
The bizarre truth was that Krupin was probably right. The Russian people hated the breakaway states—their perceived indifference to Mother Russia, their halting steps toward the West. But most of all, the Russian people hated their success. The loss of the superiority they’d once felt as they gazed out over their empire.
Even if Krupin’s actions were at some point discovered, it was possible that the Russian people would see them less as a crime against humanity and more as a bold move on the international chessboard. Decisive action against a terrorist-sponsoring Saudi regime bent on keeping Russia weak.
And he was most definitely correct about Russia’s oil and gas production becoming critical. Without the flood of money that propped up the corrupt and hopelessly incompetent Saudi government, the royal family would collapse. ISIS would overrun not just Saudi Arabia but also Kuwait and the UAE, to name just a few. Energy prices would skyrocket and Russia would go from being a decaying nation with an economy smaller than Italy’s to a world power with the ability to break its enemies by simply turning off the spigot.
Azarov suddenly regretted the understanding of economics and politics that he’d gained over the years. It was impossible not to see a future of millions dead in the Middle East. Of a world held hostage by a megalomaniac with a nuclear arsenal and natural resources that he used not for the greater good—or even for profit—but as a tool to maintain his own position.
The gun hanging beneath Azarov’s arm started to make its weight felt. He had the power to end this. To put a neat hole between Krupin’s eyes and to save the world from the horrors he would inflict.
It was an interesting thought but, in the end, a fleeting one. Saving the world wasn’t his responsibility. And even if it was, what would be the point? If not Krupin, then it would be someone else. The human race’s fate was to sow the seeds of its own destruction. Let deluded patriots like Mitch Rapp risk their lives to save a world that neither wanted nor deserved saving. Azarov’s only responsibility was to himself.
“My team?” Azarov asked.
“Men hand-picked by me from the ranks of ISIS.”
“They’re unreliable and poorly trained,” he protested. “At a minimum I should be provided soldiers or former soldiers. Preferably from the Russian special forces.”
“Out of the question.”
“Then this operation may end up the same way the action against Rapp did.”
This was the kind of insubordination that would normally cause Krupin’s anger to flare, but in this case the man was doing an admirable job of keeping his infamous temper in check. It was another indication of how critical this operation was to him. If his plan failed, it was likely that Russia’s slide would become irreversible. The people would eventually turn against him. And when they did, it would be with the same speed and violence as they had against the czars.
“I don’t think so, Grisha.”
“May I ask why?”
“I would be concerned if you didn’t. My plan is not complicated. You will accompany the weapons to Al-Hofuf, a Saudi city I imagine you’re familiar with. There you will distribute them to six two-man teams who will take them to coordinates our people have designated as being optimal. Your men’s ability to blend in is far more critical than any specialized military training they might have.”
He tapped a few keys on his laptop and brought up markers for those locations before continuing. “You’ll accompany one of those teams to an abandoned oil-production facility. From that central location you’ll command the operation.”
“There appear to be seven markers.”
“One backup team, should problems arise.”
Azarov nodded silently. “Can I assume, then, that you plan to wait until all the weapons are in position before detonating?”
“It seems prudent. The location farthest from Al-Hofuf will take an estimated fourteen hours to reach, while the closest will be a journey of only about three and a half hours. The teams will be staggered so they all reach their destinations at the same time. We don’t want the Saudis and Americans to know what’s happening until it’s done.”
“Then why not detonate the bombs remotely when you see that everyone is in position? What is the point of having me on location?”
“Two reasons. First, with the storms we’re predicting, satellite communications are likely going to be unreliable. And second, while we’ve trained the ISIS teams as thoroughly as possible, they can’t be relied on to handle any significant problems. For that, only you can be trusted.”
“So, I will have the ability to remote-detonate the weapons?”
“No. We couldn’t create a foolproof system for that. Each man will have his own detonation code. When they are cleared to do so, they will enter them in within thirty seconds of each other.”
“And be vaporized.”
“Of course.”
“What about the bomb that I’m being asked to detonate?”
Krupin’s irritation at being interrogated like this was beginning to show, but still he answered. “You will leave in the vehicle you arrived in. When you’re at a safe distance, the two men you left behind will detonate the bomb. Should they be unable to, you will be provided with a code that has a twenty-minute delay.”
“But what if—”
“All the operational details are here,” Krupin said, cutting him off and holding out a thumb drive. “Review them and, as always, if you have any concerns, contact me.”
Azarov accepted the drive and just stared down at it.
“Do this, Grisha, and you will have anything you want. Unlimited wealth. Unlimited power. You—”
“I want out,” Azarov said, without looking up from the innocuous piece of plastic in his hand.
“What?”
“I want to never return to Russia. I want you to forget I exist.”
Krupin leaned back, his narrow lips spreading into a smile. “Are you going to retreat to Costa Rica? Return to the farming of your youth?”
“That’s my affair.”
Azarov’s tone registered in Krupin’s eyes but nowhere else. “And if I refuse?”
“Then I’m sure the ISIS team you’re so confident in can handle the operation without me.”
“You may not be as indispensible as you believe, Grisha.”
Again, the gun beneath Azarov’s arm made its presence felt. This time there must have been some hint of it in his body language because, for the first time in their relationship, the Russian president became visibly nervous.
“If you want to turn your back on everything I’m offering you to live a life with no value, Grisha, then so be it. As you say, that’s your affair.”
CHAPTER 30
NEAR BHAKKAR
PAKISTAN
JOE Maslick adjusted his grip under Rapp’s arm, dragging him down the hallway with the help of one of Saad Chutani’s men. Rapp wasn’t moving at all, his bare feet just dragged lifelessly across the concrete floor. Maslick was actually a little relieved when he started to cough, despite the fact that every successive convulsion sprayed blood from his grotesquely swollen lips. When a pink tooth dislodged and skittered across the floor, though, the sweat running down the former Delta operator’s back turned cold.
Had he gone too far? The goal was to mimic the damage Jesem had suffered and obscure any differences between his and Rapp’s features. It had been no small task. The Pakistanis had gone to town on Jesem, and his nose had been significantly different from Rapp’s in both size and shape. Trying to make the switch convincing without doing damage severe enough to hinder Rapp’s operational ability had been impossible.
Rapp had survived his years in this business because he was just plain faster, stronger, smarter, and more accurate than everyone else. There was no way that was true any longe
r. If he never came back from this mission, Maslick would spend the rest of his life wondering if it had been the result of one too many uppercuts to the chin for him to see straight. A kick to the ribs that was a little too hard to allow him to move effectively. Internal bleeding created while trying to match the bruising on Jesem’s stomach.
General Shirani appeared at the end of the hallway with two of his men, effectively blocking it. Just like Rapp had said he would.
“What are you doing with my prisoner?”
Maslick took in a breath and let it out slowly. This was going to be the hard part. He’d never been much of a talker, even when he was a kid. But that was okay. His job was shooting, not making speeches. He said what needed to be said and then killed the people who needed to be killed. Unfortunately, his orders in this situation were somewhat different.
“Get the fuck out of the way,” he said.
Good use of vulgarity, but too quiet. Too hesitant. Shirani was a useless Pakistani piece of shit, but he was still a four-star. And that was a rank Maslick had spent most of his life being taught to respect.
“Where is Mitch Rapp?”
“He went out to one of the trucks. Said he needed to talk to—”
It turned out that Rapp wasn’t really unconscious. Maslick felt a painful jab in the small of his back.
“I mean, he said he needed to get out of this shithole.”
“Our nuclear facility isn’t luxurious enough for him?”
“I think he meant your whole fucking country.”
The sharp edge of Rapp’s thumbnail was replaced by a couple of encouraging pats.
Both Rapp and Kennedy believed that General Shirani had an open communication channel with ISIS. He denied any connection, but the truth was that he’d get in bed with anyone interested in weakening the civilian government.