The most eventful portion of the mission had so far been the midair ballet south of Moscow. After that, it was just a series of stops and starts to disrupt any trail. They spent one night in Erbil, Iraq, offloading a couple of crates to establish a reason for their flight and give American intelligence an opportunity to take a few photographs of the airplane while it sat on the tarmac. Russia sold many weapons, including T-90 battle tanks, to Iraq, so the presence of a large transport aircraft was hardly noteworthy. The tail numbers had been changed to those of 2967 when they put down in Saratov for “systems check.” They’d also used the opportunity to pass Mikhailov’s body to a waiting GRU cleanup man while still inside Russia for later transfer to an area of the mountains nearer the presumed crash site. They could have dumped him out at altitude, but it would have been problematic if some hiker, or even a military patrol, found the body of a Russian Air Force colonel a thousand kilometers from where his aircraft was supposed to have gone down. Conspiracy theories abounded around vanished aircraft, especially those thought to be carrying nuclear material. There was no point in pouring petrol on the flames.
Landing at the island airbase of Masirah hadn’t been too much of a problem, considering the Antonov’s established record of recent electrical problems. There were few airports in the world that would not allow an aircraft to land with a declared emergency. Oman and Russia were not exactly friends, but they were not enemies, either. One million dollars in medium-denomination bills weighed approximately fifteen pounds. The largesse of a twenty-pound briefcase along with some whispered words about rare antiquities bought a blind eye from even a neutral acquaintance. What did the Omani base commander care if the Russians smuggled a little statuary and art out of Iraq? Cherenko had half hoped the Omani colonel would tell them to move on, or, at the very least, become nosy so they would be forced to fly somewhere else. At least then he’d be in the air instead of loitering on some shithole of an island waiting for further instructions. But the greedy old fool was too busy counting his money.
Cherenko grunted to himself, struck with a sudden idea. He rolled half over in his bed, the oval armed forces ID tags he wore around his neck falling to the side as he reached for his black leather briefcase. He pulled out the small tablet computer and stuffed the ID tags back inside his T-shirt before situating himself against the grimy pillows. Checking his personal bank account would help to pass the time. If converted into cash, it would weigh considerably more than fifteen pounds.
Dmitry Leskov picked a bread crumb off his longish upper lip and stared up at the headliner of the rented Toyota sedan, happy to be out of the fishy-smelling restaurant. A major in the 45th Guards Independent Reconnaissance, an elite Spetsnaz brigade of Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate, he’d never been fond of seafood. Give him a good borscht and maybe a few buckwheat blini with smetana and onion any day. He cared for none of this stuff you had to pry out of its shell to get in your mouth. He and Captain Osin had served together in Chechnya and Ossetia. Disguised as civilians, they’d distinguished themselves during the intervention in Ukraine, earning the trust of their GRU commanders for exceedingly delicate missions on behalf of the motherland.
“This da Rocha character is certainly pompous enough for our purposes,” Osin said, pushing blond bangs to the side of his face before starting the car. He was a capable soldier, Captain Osin, his penchant for farm-boy haircuts notwithstanding.
“Maybe.” Leskov gave a noncommittal shrug. “But I don’t like him. We still need to talk with Don Felipe. He’s no smarter, but certainly more trustworthy. We should mark the Spaniard off our list before we take a gamble on this one.”
“And we will,” Osin said. “You do have a nose for these things. Perhaps da Rocha is CIA, or American military.”
“Perhaps,” Leskov said. “But I doubt even the Americans would stoop to killing Gaspard. Yuri said he was indeed murdered by a woman while sunbathing on the beach. Odd that they would assassinate him so publicly.”
Osin grimaced. “At least we don’t have to spend another minute with that pig.” He nosed the Toyota into traffic as he spoke. “It is ironic that da Rocha would work so hard to be involved in our project, all things considered.”
Another shrug. “Ironic indeed.”
Leskov nestled down in his seat and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. These delicate missions for the motherland were becoming more tedious by the moment. This one would require a great deal of cleanup — and since it was extremely close-hold, that cleanup would fall to them.
Lisanne Robertson walked across Estrada do Farol after Jack dropped her off. It was still early in the season, with few outsiders on the street, but the bus stop in front of the hotel portico gate gave her an inconspicuous place to wait. She kept her back to the stucco pillar, scanning the area while trying to keep an eye on the Audi as Jack made his way up the lane toward the motorcycle. There was always a chance it was just another Ducati, unrelated to the assassination, but she agreed with Ryan. They were here. Why not check it out?
She couldn’t help but wonder about him. He was a nice guy. Smart, kind eyes, good heart — the traits her mother had told her to look for in a man. The fact that he was rugged and athletic didn’t hurt. Still, they worked together.
She turned to look to the south just in time to see a blond man jump out the passenger door of a gray Mercedes ten feet away. He kept a black pistol close to his body, half hidden by a leather jacket, and hooked his hand toward the car, barking an order in French to get in.
She raised her hands and stepped forward, closing the gap as if to comply. Shorter than the man by a head, Lisanne knew he probably underestimated her. A drastic mistake on his part.
Boot camp at Parris Island and the police academy had only honed the natural affinity for fighting that she’d inherited from her father. She bowed her head when the man reached her, eyes wide, looking as subservient as she could.
“You killed the wrong person, bitch!” the blond man said, still speaking in French. He reached to shove her into the waiting Mercedes.
She sidestepped, moving into him rather than toward the car. Her left hand parried the pistol away as her right shot upward, catching him under the nose with the heel of her palm. She rolled up and over, intent on peeling the big thug’s nose off his scowling face. He backpedaled, striking out with the pistol instead of firing it. Wasting no energy on excess movement, she brought her right hand down, delivering a hammer fist to the bridge of his already injured nose.
The blows were painful but not incapacitating — and the man had been in a fight or two himself. He snatched her wrist as it went by his face, jerking her sideways and throwing her backward. She hit the pavement hard, landing on her butt, stupidly trying to catch herself. A wave of nausea washed over her as something snapped in her wrist.
“Salope!” the man spat, aiming the pistol at her face — just before Ryan roared across the street and plowed into him with the Audi.
Ryan kept going, dragging the body past the bus stop, through the gate, and into the hotel courtyard. The Mercedes sped away, abandoning the big Frenchman. Tires squealed as Ryan threw the Audi into reverse and shot out into the street, reaching across to fling open the passenger door. Lisanne scrambled in and he drove east down Estrada do Farol.
John Clark’s voice came across the net after Ryan brought everyone up to speed.
“Dom and Adara, stay with me on the Russians. With Gaspard dead, they are our only remaining lead. Ding, you link up with us as soon as you pick up Junior and ditch his ride.”