by Vince Flynn
The entire scenario was madness. He should have spent months personally planning this confrontation: walking the streets, laying out lines of retreat, cracking Rapp’s radio encryption. He should have been drawing the legendary CIA agent into a trap that would cut him off from his backup and leave him facing an overwhelming force.
Instead, he was standing alone in an unfamiliar building armed with nothing but a pistol and single spare magazine.
Undoubtedly Maxim Krupin would say that it would be impossible to create a more elaborate plan without tipping off the Americans. That Azarov was being unnecessarily timid. Those objections rang hollow, though. In truth, Maxim Krupin was embarking on something so dark that he couldn’t risk even the remotest possibility of being discovered.
And this left further troubling questions.
Of course, the Muslims would be summarily executed after they had served their purpose. But what about him? Azarov presumed that he continued to have the Russian president’s confidence, but it would be foolish to cling too desperately to that belief. Marius Postan had been one of Krupin’s most indispensable men and he now resided at the bottom of the Arabian Sea.
The radio came to life again, this time with a distinctly British voice. One of the insane men who had abandoned their world to fight a barbaric war that didn’t concern them. “Three men on motorcycles are leaving the store on Jaranwala. One is going for Canal and another for Jhang. Best estimate is that they will intercept the truck in five minutes. The third American is heading northwest.”
Azarov nodded silently. The men converging on the truck would be Mitch Rapp and Scott Coleman. They would be forced to improvise when they discovered it had changed course. The other man would be Joe Maslick, formerly of Army Delta. He was still only about ninety percent recovered from a recent shoulder injury, so the logical course would be to send him to the helicopter the CIA was holding at the edge of town.
Azarov pulled his weapon from its holster and checked it for the last time. Rapp would be there soon.
CHAPTER 12
RAPP accelerated the motorcycle up twenty feet of open street before being forced to veer around a van. He barely avoided having to jump onto a sidewalk packed with pedestrians, instead taking the side mirror off a Suzuki wagon when he threaded between it and a light post.
The situation was an ungodly mix of everything he’d come to associate with Pakistan: heat, car exhaust, and chaos. Even in what passed for politically stable times, the country was one of the greatest threats faced by the modern world—a hopelessly corrupt hornet’s nest of factionalized terrorist groups, divisive government officials, and poorly monitored nukes.
“Turning right on Canal.” Scott Coleman’s voice in his ear.
“Copy that.”
Rapp’s long hair had become completely saturated with sweat, and it hung in front of his eyes, making visibility a struggle. An armed soldier posted on a street corner started paying too much attention and Rapp took a left into an alleyway. It was too narrow for cars, and that allowed him to increase his speed as pedestrians pressed their backs against the walls to let him by. The downside was that his handlebar-mounted GPS had lost satellite signal.
“I’ve turned off Jhang. Should be connecting to Okara in about a minute.”
“Copy,” Coleman came back.
“Mas. What’s your status?”
“I’ll be boarding the chopper in less than six minutes. Over your position in about ten.”
“Ten minutes. Copy.”
Rapp came out on a broad avenue and weaved around a motor scooter piled with bales of cotton. Coleman was about twenty blocks north, heading southwest on the same road as the truck containing the nuke. They’d converge on it from opposite directions and then they’d have to improvise. The key would be speed. Take out the tangos and get control of the vehicle. Then figure out how to deal with the backlash from the cops and military. Not exactly an airtight plan, but the best they’d been able to come up with on the fly.
“The truck has turned off Canal,” their spotter said. “It’s now moving southwest on the Karin Interchange. Traffic is moving too fast. I’m losing him.”
“I’m going to cut left on Satayana and parallel him,” Coleman said. “See if we can figure out where he’s going.”
“I’ll be coming out south of the interchange and I’ll try to get on his—”
A delivery truck parked on the sidewalk suddenly pulled back onto the road right in front of Rapp. He swerved right, cutting across traffic and narrowly avoiding getting taken out by a passenger bus. With nowhere else to go and too much momentum to stop, he jumped onto the sidewalk and locked up the rear wheel. Pedestrians dove in every direction as he was funneled toward a set of stairs heading down into an open plaza.
There was no way to stop in time, so he took the opposite course of action, twisting the accelerator and standing on the foot pegs as he approached. Frightened and angry shouts erupted around him as he launched off the landing.
The staircase was only about fifteen steps in length and he cleared the last one by a few feet, bottoming out his shocks on the concrete slab below. There was a loud snap, followed by a loss of power and the sound of the bike’s motor revving out of control. He ran through the gears but it was no use. The transmission was done.
Rapp leapt off, letting the motorcycle roll into a mailbox before flipping on its side. A crowd immediately started to gather and he could see the gray-and-tan shape of a cop running in his direction.
Rapp’s first instinct was to go for the crowd. In his experience, the first few rows of people would offer token resistance, but the ones behind would just be following the herd. They would have no idea what was happening or who was involved.
As he got closer, though, it became clear that the cop was a good thirty pounds overweight, jogging awkwardly with an assault rifle clutched in front of his ample stomach. It would be a miracle if he could run a fifteen-minute mile without dropping dead, while Rapp could cover that distance in a third of the time.
Satisfied that there would be no serious pursuit, Rapp turned away from the expanding mob and began sprinting toward their target’s last reported position.
“I’m on foot,” he said into his throat mike. “Coming up on Okara.”
“Are you all right?” Coleman asked. “What happened?”
“Yes, and don’t ask. Mas? Where are you? My GPS is still on the bike. I’m running blind.”
“On my way. We’re pushing it as hard as we can, Mitch.”
Rapp glanced behind him and confirmed that the cop was standing motionless on the sidewalk, bent at the waist and trying to catch his breath.
“I’m still on Satayana,” Coleman said. “Try not to be too late for the party, huh, Mitch?”
CHAPTER 13
“I’VE reacquired the target,” a voice said over Scott Coleman’s earpiece. “It’s entering a warehouse on the corner of Haali and Qaim using bay doors on the southwest side.”
“Copy that,” Coleman said, glancing down at the GPS on his bars. It was being updated remotely, and a few seconds later he had routing. “I’m about two minutes out. Can you keep eyes on?”
“That’s a negative,” the spotter responded. “They’re closing the doors. I’ll watch this entrance but I’m guessing there’s another one on the other side of the building.”
In fact, it was almost certain there was, Coleman knew. The likely scenario was that the driver had been paid to divert to the warehouse and that al Badr would have men there to unload the nuke. If Coleman had been running their operation, he’d have at least five cars parked inside and he’d roll them all out at the same time. One transport and four decoys.
On the other hand, it was possible that the warehouse itself was a decoy. That they were just routing through it in an effort to shake anyone who might be tailing.
“Roger that. Hold your position,” Coleman said. “I’m less than a minute now. Can we bring in more surveillance?”
�
��We have three people inbound, but ETAs are unknown.”
It was impossible to estimate transit times if you were much more than a mile out. Traffic followed no discernible pattern, delivery vehicles regularly shut down entire roads during unloading, and accidents were more the rule than the exception.
Not that his lack of backup mattered all that much. None of these people were shooters.
Coleman cut down an alley, slowing to not much more than five miles an hour as he weaved through the annoyed pedestrians. When he came out on the other side, the warehouse was straight ahead. It looked like it took up the entire block, with huge, mostly broken windows that started about fifteen feet up and terminated near the roof.
He was coming in from the opposite direction of the spotter. A set of bay doors was visible, so at minimum, the north and south sides had egress points large enough for the truck.
“I’m on location,” Coleman said, pulling the bike between two parked cars and shutting it down.
“Copy that,” he heard Rapp say breathlessly. “Mas, where the fuck are you?”
“Should be coming over your position in a few seconds.”
“Copy.”
“Keep me apprised,” Coleman said. “I’m going to take a look.”
He kept his helmet on as he crossed the busy street, moving as quickly as he could without attracting attention. The headgear was hot as hell but this wasn’t exactly a tourist area and his blond hair would stand out like a sore thumb. Undoubtedly, he’d take shit from Rapp over that in the post-op debriefing.
The bay doors were secured with a massive padlock that was hanging about eight feet above the sidewalk. There was no way it could be opened from inside, and based on the rust, it was questionable whether it could be opened at all. He decided to slip into the alley running between the east side of the warehouse and the windowless building next to it.
Less than six feet wide, it was piled high with garbage from a recent sanitation worker strike. The smell combined with the heat was a little nauseating, but it dissuaded people from using the alley as a shortcut.
“Mas,” he heard Rapp say over the comm, “I can hear you behind me. I’m just about to cross Aminpura.”
“Hang on . . . yeah. I’ve got you, Mitch.”
“There’s a soldier coming in on me from the west. He’s talking on his radio. Do you see him?”
“Affirmative. You also have two cops straight ahead. You’re going to run right into them. Advise that you get off that street. The buildings on your right back up to an alley.”
“Roger that.”
Coleman started climbing a pile of garbage bags, struggling as some burst and others rolled beneath his boots. It took the better part of a minute, but he managed to get even with an intact upper window. The glass was surprisingly clean thanks to a recent rainstorm and he cupped his hands against it, trying to block out the glare.
“We’re getting some preliminary reports on the building,” he heard their spotter say over his earpiece. “It was used to manufacture industrial air conditioners until the company went bankrupt three years ago. It appears to be laid out as one open space with some of the machinery still on-site.”
“I can confirm that,” Coleman said. “There’s also a small central office and a fair amount of debris.”
He spotted movement at the back and adjusted his position to see better. Because he was in direct sunlight, the shadows seemed particularly deep. Not so much that he couldn’t make out basic outlines, though. “I have eyes on the truck and at least two tangos. They seem to be unloading.”
“Roger that,” Rapp said. “Mas, I’m still a long way out on foot and those two cops have spotted me. Can you give me a lift?”
“No problem.”
Coleman’s eyes were starting to adjust to the light level in the warehouse and he managed to pick out two more tangos, for a total of at least four. They were pulling crates out of the truck, but none of the boxes were large enough to contain the package he was looking for. Most likely, the warhead was buried deep behind the legit cargo.
“Orders?” Coleman said into the mike installed in his helmet.
“You’re there, not me,” Rapp responded. “It’s your call.”
There seemed to be some excitement flaring in the warehouse and he watched as three of the men rushed toward the back of the truck. A moment later, they reappeared carrying something that looked a little like a simple pine coffin. Decision made.
“I’m going in.”
“Roger that. Watch your ass and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Coleman half scrambled, half rolled down the trash heap and ran to a small door in the side of the warehouse. It was secured with a padlock smaller than the one on the front bays, but every bit as rusted. He retrieved his silenced Sig Sauer P226 and fired a single round into the lock. As expected, it gave way.
The flash of light was going to be a problem as he entered so he yanked the door open only far enough to slip through sideways, immediately closing it and dropping to the floor. The men at the back of the building were too lost in their effort to open the crate to notice.
Coleman propped his elbow on the floor and aimed carefully at a man hammering a crowbar beneath the lid. He took a breath and held it before gently squeezing the trigger. The quiet snap of the gun was followed by the man’s head jerking back. And then all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER 14
MOSCOW
RUSSIA
PRESIDENT Maxim Krupin strode down the hallway flanked by two men in traditional Russian military uniforms. The thick red carpet seemed to disappear into the distance, absorbing the sound of their footsteps. For the first time, the silence and grandeur failed to fill him with a sense of his own importance.
When the ornate doors at the end of the passage finally came into view, he slowed. The anger had been building in him since the moment this meeting was scheduled. The fact that it was necessary—that he lacked the power to prevent it—infuriated him. In the end, though, this was the way of the world. No dictator’s grip was absolute. History was littered with the corpses of men who forgot that simple fact.
Two additional guards snapped to attention next to a pair of marble pillars and then moved to open the doors. Krupin passed through without acknowledging them.
The conference room he’d chosen was the least grand available. It was long and narrow, with a utilitarian table that extended too close to unadorned green walls. The men seated around it were somewhat more impressive—a sea of tailored suits, extravagant jewelry, and elegant haircuts. Twelve in all, they were members of Russia’s new ruling class. Each had a net worth in excess of ten billion U.S. dollars, with holdings throughout the country and the world. Oil, gas, real estate, and arms were the primary sources of income, but their portfolios diversified more every year. Commercial fishing, media, construction, and agriculture played an ever-growing part. It was a complex web that was becoming difficult for him to control. And as the importance of his role diminished, so grew their arrogance.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Krupin said as they all stood.
He singled out a few of the most influential men for a brief nod and then took a place at the head of the table.
“Please sit.”
All did as he asked, but none returned his greeting or spoke. They were fully aware of what had happened to Dmitry Utkin and now knew that they weren’t as untouchable as they had once imagined. Good. Let them speak in whispers about it among themselves. Let them lie awake at night wondering if Grisha was just outside their door. If it was their turn to face him.
Without exception, the men in the room owed everything they had to the government. If it weren’t for the gifts, payments, tax breaks, and nepotism lavished on them after the fall of the Soviet Union, they would be scraping out an existence far from the halls of power. As time passed, though, that history became easier to deny. They began to forget what had made them what they were and to believe they should have a say in
how the country was run.
The arrogance of that position was laughable, but to ignore it would be unwise. While they didn’t have the FSB or Grisha Azarov at their disposal, they were still dangerous. Each commanded enormous resources and great political power both within Russia and outside it. Further, most had significant ties to organized crime along with the mercenaries, assassins, and traitors who made up those syndicates. As distasteful as it was for Krupin to admit, a war between him and the oligarchs would destroy everything he had built while producing no clear winner.
“Academics have many names for government structures,” Krupin started. “Monarchy, democracy, communism, socialism. But there’s really only one. The world has always been ruled by a small group of men with the cunning, strength, and drive to take the reins of power. You are those men. The rest—the people outside these walls—are sheep.”
Krupin’s gaze moved around the table as he spoke, making eye contact with everyone seated at it. “Even the Americans who believe their democracy to be so unique are no different from us. Their politicians are members of family dynasties and owned by wealthy patrons. Information is controlled by a media flogging false narratives for profit. They call us corrupt, but we’re all members of the same hypocrisy. It can be no other way.”
He paused and, predictably, all eyes flickered toward Tarben Chkalov. He was in his mid-eighties and nowhere near the wealthiest of them, but there was little question that he commanded the most respect. His holdings were the most diverse internationally and he’d moved most aggressively to distance himself from Russia’s system of patronage. It was this careful maneuvering that had made him the de facto leader of the oligarchs and the second-most-powerful man in Russia next to Krupin himself.
As was his custom, Chkalov stood and silently acknowledged everyone at the table before he spoke. “We all agree with much of what you say, Mr. President. And we are fully aware of our debt to the Russian government for its past favors and to you personally for your political skill. You’ve given the people enemies—the Americans, the breakaway states, the homosexuals. You’ve given them a sense of outrage and persecution. You’ve inflamed their nationalism. All these things have been extraordinarily effective at keeping attention diverted from our activities as well as your own.”
