“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.