by Vince Flynn
“Mitch Rapp threatened not only my life but the life of one of my people. You’re drowning in this Rickman thing. The CIA’s being exposed for what it is. I don’t think it’s time for you to start throwing stones.”
Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she reached for it. Only communications from Mitch, Mike Nash, and Marcus Dumond were enabled while she was at the White House. “Excuse me a moment.”
The text on her screen was written in Marcus Dumond’s brief but emphatic style.
GOT IT!!!!! SERVER IN RUSSIA!
ON MY WAY TO MEET MITCH AND SCOTT @ AIRPORT.
The message was followed by an emoji of his caricature wearing sunglasses and flanked by two thumbs-up.
“It’s been nice talking to you, Senator, but I’m afraid there’s something I need to attend to.”
When she reached for the door handle, Ferris grabbed her wrist. “You don’t want me as an enemy, Irene. When I become president, the CIA will come under political control and Mitch Rapp will spend the rest of his life trying to stay out of prison. The question is what happens to you. You can fight me and end up like him or you can be a good little girl and walk away with a pension and a high-paying private sector job. If you’re smart—and I know you are—I’d suggest you give some thought to which future you see for yourself.”
CHAPTER 49
OUTSIDE OF VOLOGDA
RUSSIA
THE snow was light but the wind was strong enough to rattle the windows of the scattered buildings. It was 2 a.m. and the small industrial park was all but abandoned. What little illumination existed was provided by a few icy security lights glowing over doors locked down for the night.
Kabir Gadai approached on foot, taking a circuitous route that kept him in complete darkness. His team leader was crouched at the edge of the only parking lot in the area still containing cars. The windows of the building on the far side were about half lit, with hazy human figures visible moving inside.
“How many people?” Gadai asked as he slipped in behind his man.
“We don’t know, sir.”
Normally he would have carefully researched the company and sent an advance team to determine its rhythms before embarking on an operation like this. Once again, though, Taj had made those kinds of precautions impossible. His desperation to acquire Rickman’s files continued to grow, turning incaution into outright volatility. Any call for premeditation would have done nothing but throw the man into a rage.
“Maxim and Raisa Durov?”
“All evidence points to them both being inside. Their house is empty and their car is in the lot. There’s no way to be entirely certain, though.”
The Durovs owned the small Internet service provider that hosted the email address connected to the Rickman files. Based on what little Gadai had been able to find out, the former hackers had a very exclusive clientele of oligarchs and organized criminals who valued the privacy the couple could provide. It was a shame there would be no opportunity to look deeper into their organization. Undoubtedly they had access to a great deal of information that could benefit Pakistan, Islam, and him personally.
“Do we have schematics of the building?”
“No, sir.”
Gadai let out a frustrated breath. Their entry into Russia had been less than careful, and now they were embarking on a completely improvised operation. He was beginning to wonder if these files were a gift from Allah or a punishment from the devil.
“Your people all know what the Durovs look like?”
“We were provided photographs.”
“Then you have my authorization to begin.”
The former soldier spoke into a microphone on his wrist, and a moment later, Gadai saw movement west of the building. A man in a long gray coat walked across the parking lot and knocked on the glass door leading to the reception area. A young woman sitting behind a curved desk stood and walked toward the front of the building. She appeared to be unarmed and her relaxed gait suggested that she was unconcerned by the late-night visitor. Either this was a common occurrence in an industry without set hours or she was confident that the company was well protected by its client list.
She unlocked the door and leaned out, saying something in -Russian. Gadai’s man spoke the language fluently, but didn’t respond. Having confirmed that this wasn’t Raisa Durov, he grabbed the woman’s long hair in one hand and chin in the other. A violent twist created a soft crunch that carried across the lot. Gadai began to move as soon as it reached him. More men—his team numbered six in all—appeared from hidden positions and headed for the building.
Gadai entered and went immediately to the desk while the woman’s body was dragged behind it. As he’d hoped, there was a bank of monitors streaming security camera video from throughout the building. With no floor plan, it was impossible to connect the images with specific locations, but at least he would be able to get an idea of what they were dealing with.
“Ten people in all,” he said to the men gathering around him. “Six are asleep—either in cots or on the floor. The remaining four are working behind terminals. Maxim and Raisa are separated from the others in what appears to be their office. I think we can assume it’s on the top floor. We’ll use the stairs and clear the four floors two at a time.”
Gadai led, splitting his force. One went through a metal door at the back of the lobby while he ushered the men staying with him into the stairwell. They ascended quickly, coming out on the second floor and clearing the bathrooms before continuing silently down the hallway. The first few rooms were empty, but the last contained a woman and two men who looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. All were asleep on cots, and he motioned to his men, assigning targets. They each fired a single shot from their silenced pistols.
“Second floor clear,” he said into the microphone attached to his wrist. “Three contacts down. Continuing to the fourth floor.”
The response over his earpiece was immediate. “First floor clear. One contact down. Continuing to the third floor.”
They entered the top floor with no resistance. All doors in the corridor were open but only one had a light on. Gadai moved toward it as his men checked for people asleep in the other rooms.
He stopped next to the entrance to the lit office. Two of his three men accompanied him, while another stood in a doorway down the hall and signaled with one finger. The flash and the muffled pop of his Beretta 92F were loud enough to cause the clack of keyboards in the office to go silent.
Gadai moved through the door with his weapon in front of him. Raisa Durov let out a strangled chirp of a scream and her husband’s eyes widened as he raised his hands.
“Stay where you are,” Gadai said as his men fanned out behind him.
“What . . .” Maxim stammered. “What do you want?”
“Information.”
“Do you know who really owns this company?” Raisa said incredulously. “You can’t do this.”
“Shut up, woman!” Gadai said, approaching and pressing his silencer to the side of her head. She cringed in fear and he locked eyes with her husband. “Do you want her to die?”
“No! Please. Don’t hurt her.”
Gadai handed him a piece of paper. “This email address. Who does it belong to?”
“How would I know? People don’t have to give me their real names or locations when they set up an address. It could be anyone.”
It was an absurd lie. His ISP wasn’t Google. It was private, expensive, and highly selective. Maxim would have access to everything that went through his server.
“Third floor clear,” came the voice over his earpiece. “Three contacts down.”
Gadai turned his gaze to the young woman for a moment. She was in her late twenties, with a thin body and vaguely Asian features. Her dark hair had a streak of blue that was nearly identical to the color of the sweater stretched tightly over her breasts. Another whore like the one who had been sleeping with the men below.
“Do what you want wi
th her,” Gadai said, taking a step back and adjusting his aim to Maxim’s head.
His men grabbed the woman and threw her to the floor. One used a switchblade to cut off her sweater, leaving a thin red line where the blade had contacted her skin.
“No!” Maxim shouted. “Stop!” He tried to get out of his chair, but Gadai slammed a boot into his chest.
One of his men had a hand clamped over the woman’s mouth and her arms pinned behind her. She fought wildly as the other cut through her pants.
“Stop!” Maxim said, the panic rising in his voice. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“Too late.” The woman’s bra and jeans were in tatters on the floor now, leaving her wearing nothing but a pair of bright red panties. Gadai was enjoying watching the terror in her eyes.
“Please! Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you,” Maxim begged. “If you hurt her, though, I’ll lock the whole system down. I swear you won’t get anything.”
It was an empty but expected threat. A hierarchy had been established, and Maxim was well aware of where he and his wife existed on it.
“Since we seem to understand one another,” Gadai said, “my men will stop.”
The disappointment was clear on their faces, but it made sense to pull back before the woman was completely naked before them. It provided a line that her husband would not want crossed.
“Who does that email address belong to?” Gadai repeated.
“I have to use my computer to find out.”
Gadai nodded and the man turned slowly in his chair, reluctant to take his eyes off the men holding his wife.
“I have people monitoring every access point into this industrial park,” Gadai said, pressing his gun to the back of Maxim’s neck. “If you send out a warning and we see someone approach, I’ll make you watch my men cut your wife apart.”
“I’m not going to warn anyone. We handle thousands of email -addresses. You can’t expect me to remember them all.”
In fact, Gadai didn’t. He had always known that this information would need to be pulled off the server and that there was danger in giving a man like Maxim access to a keyboard. Unfortunately, it was a danger he could do nothing to mitigate.
Gadai watched the Russian type, not understanding what he was seeing but doing everything possible to give the impression that he did.
“Where are the others?” Maxim said as he worked. “Are my people all right?”
“Of course. And they’ll remain that way as long as you give me what I want.”
He scrolled down a list of email addresses, finally clicking on one near the bottom of the screen. A name, and nothing else, came up. Pavel Katdsyn.
“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know. I—”
Gadai spun the chair so that Maxim was once again facing his wife and nodded. She was still being held from behind, now with one of his men fondling her breasts. The knife came out again and a moment later her panties were being thrown across the room.
“Wait!”
Gadai held up a hand. “Why? Why should I stop my men when you’re telling me nothing but lies?”
“I know where Pavel lives. I can’t guarantee he’s there right now, though. I—”
“Where?”
“I have to use my computer again. If I turn around your men won’t hurt her? I have your word?”
“I want only the information I came for, Maxim. The fact that I don’t have it is the only thing keeping me here.”
The young computer expert went back to his keyboard, pulling up a Russian mapping site and zeroing in on a remote region to the north. “He’s here.”
There was no city or town marked, only what looked like an empty expanse of wilderness.
“You’re trying to tell me this man lives in the forest?”
Maxim switched from map view to satellite view and a small outpost revealed itself. One street with what looked like four buildings on either side.
“What is this?”
“It’s a . . .” He searched for the English word. “Commune. About thirty people live there.”
“Criminals,” Gadai said. “Staying out of the reach of authorities.”
“Yes.”
“Part of Russia’s organized crime network?”
“No. Mostly spammers and con artists. They traffic in a few stolen goods, but it’s mostly Internet scams.”
“What’s the closest access point?”
“You could fly into Ukhta.”
“That’s still more than a hundred kilometers away. How would I get to their location?”
Maxim ran a finger along a barely visible line leading from the commune. “It’s hard to see, but this is a road. It’s packed with snow this time of year, but they maintain it well enough to get a snowcat through. It’s how they bring in supplies.”
Gadai nodded. “You’ve done well.”
“Then you’re going to leave? You’re going to let us go?”
The Pakistani smiled as Maxim turned back toward his wife. The knife that had been used to disrobe her was now drawn across her neck. Maxim screamed as the blood sprayed across the room, splattering his legs and bare feet. Gadai grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head down and firing a single round into the back of it.
Gadai started for the door as his men cast off the still-thrashing woman. “Burn everything. And tell our pilots to lay in a flight plan to Ukhta.”
CHAPTER 50
NORTHWESTERN RUSSIA
THE plane’s left side dipped violently, stretching the seat belt across Mitch Rapp’s lap and slamming his head into the window. He awoke and squinted through the glass, but there wasn’t much to see. A wing with a disconcerting number of rivets missing, heavy snow streaking past the lights, and the darkness beyond.
Another violent gust struck but this time the plane rose, shoving him down in his seat with impressive force. He closed his eyes again. The weather was the pilot’s problem. And while the Russians couldn’t do much right, they did blizzards better than anyone.
A long, terrified scream became audible but he ignored it and let himself drift again. It was the first time in days that he’d been able to get fully asleep. There would be no more posthumous chess games with Joe Rickman. No more talk. Finally, he and his team had an opportunity to take action.
Marcus Dumond—the source of the scream—believed that if their competition really was Pakistan, enough files had been released for the ISI to have traced the location of the hacker they were on their way to find. In fact, S Wing operatives might have already been there, obtained Rickman’s encryption key, and gone. If that was the case, the trip to Russia would be a complete waste of time but still better than standing around Langley waiting for another gloating video to hit Kennedy’s inbox.
Rapp felt a hand close on his shoulder followed by the voice of Scott Coleman shouting over the roar of the wind and straining engines. “We’re going in!”
“Crashing or landing?”
“I’m not sure. The good news is that the pilot says we’ll be fine. The bad news is that it looks like he’s been crying.”
Rapp just nodded and went back to sleep.
• • •
“Mitch! Rise and shine. We made it!”
Rapp opened his eyes and stretched, looking around at the carnage on the small plane. Most of the overhead bins had given way during landing, leaving some of their gear strewn across empty seats and the rest on the floor. Charlie Wicker and Bruno McGraw were gathering everything up while Marcus Dumond clutched his laptop, looking queasy. He was standing near the cockpit as their sweat-soaked pilot threw a shoulder repeatedly against the door. It finally came free with a blast of wind nearly strong enough to knock him over. That didn’t deter Dumond, though. He leapt through the opening and into the snow.
The cold was both immediate and lung searing. Rapp pulled on a white parka designed to camouflage him against the winter landscape and headed for the front. The stairs were down now and he d
escended, pulling Dumond out of a snowbank and dusting him off.
“I shouldn’t be here, Mitch. I’m a tech guy. This is ops. It’s fucking freezing and we’re a hundred miles from the middle of nowhere. We could get trapped out here. How would anybody help us? No one even knows we’re here, do they? I told my girlfriend I was—”
“Marcus. Shut up and try to relax.”
Rapp moved away, studying what little he could see. Beyond the circle of illumination generated by the plane, there was nothing but blackness. Inside the circle, there was nothing but snow. If anyone was out there, they’d have an advantage, but not much of one. Even a shooter with state-of-the-art optics would have to be within ten yards to even pick out a target, let alone hit it.
His men started throwing duffels out the door just as the muffled hum of a motor separated itself from the storm. A set of lights appeared a few moments later, mounted to a bright red tracked vehicle. Rapp unzipped his jacket for better access to his weapon as it came to a stop. The logo was Cyrillic but below was an English translation: Shulyov Hunting and Snowmobile Tours.
They’d gotten lucky when Nash found the outfitter. Their camp was only about thirty miles from where the Rickman files were being released by a Russian crook named Pavel Katdsyn. Their cover was as a last-minute booking by a corporate team-building group. There wasn’t time to create an elaborate legend, so Rapp just had to hope that Nash hadn’t missed anything. After Istanbul, it wasn’t a great time for him to get recognized in Russia.
A figure in a North Face Himalayan suit jumped out of the vehicle and started running toward them. It wasn’t until the person got within a few feet that Rapp could make out the face inside the hood. The woman’s skin was a bit more windburned than the pictures he’d seen but still unlined, with dark eyes and a long, straight nose. She was only twenty-nine and as far as the CIA could tell had spent nearly all of those years in this wilderness. Her father had started the company after leaving the Soviet army and had run it until his death two years ago.
