“My bravado or lack thereof was of no importance,” Azarov said, cleaning his wounds with alcohol. “I never saw Mitch Rapp, though it seems likely that he fired the shot that injured me. He sent his man Scott Coleman into the warehouse and I dealt with the situation.”
Krupin ignored him. “The Pakistanis are demanding the weapon back, but the Americans are delaying. We have to assume they’re examining it.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“I’m not interested in your opinions on this or any other matter, Grisha! I’m interested in your actions. The Americans won’t just be looking at the Pakistani technology, they’ll be looking for clues as to who was behind the attempt to steal it. And unless the Pakistanis can exert sufficient pressure to get it back immediately, it’s almost certain that the our alterations will be discovered.”
Azarov had a growing understanding of Krupin’s activities in Pakistan, but he was still in the dark as to the man’s ultimate goal. What alterations was he referring to?
When he spoke again, Krupin seemed to have recovered the icy façade that he liked to wear. “For the first time in our relationship, you’ve disappointed me, Grisha.”
Azarov pulled the pistol from the holster beneath his left arm and placed it on the counter. It seemed unlikely that Krupin would act rashly where his young enforcer was involved. In the current unpredictable environment, it would be more advantageous to send Azarov to his death in a way that furthered his plans than to summarily execute him. Having said that, it would be a mistake to count on his indispensability as Marius Postan had.
“At this point, I can only offer my apologies, sir. My hope is that despite this setback, your Pakistani operations were successful and that now you have what you want.”
“I do. But with Rapp alive and in possession of the Faisalabad warhead, it’s possible that Irene Kennedy will get a glimpse into my plans.”
“She’s a political appointee,” Azarov said. “Certainly she’s controllable.”
“Not as much as one would expect. We’ve contacted people sympathetic to us in their Congress and found many of them to be afraid of her. Even more so, of Mitch Rapp. That’s one of many reasons he needed to be dealt with. The problem is that your incompetence has tipped him off. He’ll become cautious and retreat.”
Azarov actually laughed out loud at that. “Mr. President, in all likelihood, I’ve killed his primary lieutenant and closest friends. I can tell you with great certainty that a confrontation between myself and Mr. Rapp is now inevitable.”
• • •
Maxim Krupin cut off the speakerphone and looked across his desk at Tarben Chkalov. The powerful oligarch said nothing, instead staring at the speaker with aging eyes.
Krupin found it difficult to hide his anger at having the old bag of bones there. At being forced to consult with this man in affairs of state-the affairs of a country that he had sacrificed everything to control.
But even great autocrats such as France’s Louis XIV had been forced to cater to nobles and religious leaders. While Russia’s people could be drugged with the illusion of power, its oligarchs demanded more tangible rewards. Like stray dogs, they occasionally had to be thrown scraps from his table.
“Irene Kennedy will discover your tampering,” Chkalov said. “She’s many things, but stupid is not one of them.”
Krupin had anticipated the criticism and managed a respectful nod. “The men involved were from a Pakistani terrorist group. I don’t see how this-”
“But Ilya Gusev in South Africa was not. Nor is Grisha. Certainly there were witnesses in Faisalabad. And in the modern society we live in, someone always has a phone with a camera. Even if Grisha can’t be specifically identified, it will be obvious to anyone with eyes that he isn’t Middle Eastern. And are we even certain that Scott Coleman is dead? Rapp went to a great deal of trouble to get him out.”
“The Americans have a sentimental bias against leaving their fallen behind.”
“Perhaps. But if he has survived, I suspect that Grisha’s face is indelibly burned into his mind.”
“What are you suggesting, Tarben?”
Chkalov forced an unconvincingly subservient smile. “I wouldn’t presume to suggest anything, Mr. President. I was merely pointing out that your attempt to divert blame to ISIS and other similar groups may be at risk.”
“The Americans are terrified of the Muslims and blinded to all other risks by that fear. They’ll believe that their mainland is under a nuclear threat and will pull back to defend themselves. By the time they realize the truth, it’ll be too late.”
“They would say ’circling the wagons,’ ” the old man said. He was fond of flaunting his mastery of English. “I agree with regard to the American politicians. They both fear the Muslim threat and need it to keep their electorate motivated. Kennedy and Rapp, though, are different. They’re not afraid and they don’t have to worry about elections. Further, they’re as knowledgeable as anyone alive about the groups you are trying to use to blind them. More knowledgeable than even you, perhaps.”
“You overestimate them, Tarben. Kennedy is hemmed in by the increasing dysfunction of the American government and Rapp is nothing more than an assassin. Gifted in that realm admittedly, but hardly sophisticated enough to understand the forces at work here.”
Chkalov just nodded.
CHAPTER 23
SOUTHWESTERN VIRGINIA
U.S.A.
THE dull ring of a knock on the steel door echoed off the walls. Rapp sat up on his cot, looking through the semidarkness at the rusting pipes and crumbling ceiling. During the height of the Cold War, this is where the ICBM missile crews bunked. Now the room was little more than a relic of a largely forgotten conflict.
The only illumination was coming from a single battery-powered light on the floor. There was no functioning power in the room, and the lack of electric heat gave it the feel of a meat locker. Despite that, Maslick was snoring loudly in the top bunk, the fog of his breath rising rhythmically into the still air. For now, his role in this was over. He’d focus on recovery until he was needed again.
The knock came again, this time followed by the sound of the door scraping open.
“Mitch?” Craig Bailer’s voice. But more subdued than normal. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” Rapp said, sliding off the edge of his bunk. “What time is it?”
“Four in the morning,” Bailer said, motioning Rapp down a corridor fashioned from a concrete pipe twenty feet in diameter.
“Have you found anything?”
“After we made sure it was safe, we gave the forensics guys priority. They wanted prints, DNA, fibers, and God knows what else before my people contaminated it any more than it already has been. When they were done, we started with X-rays, MRI, and metallurgy.”
It was hard not to notice that Bailer was avoiding his question. “And?”
“Well, it’s definitely safe,” he said in an enigmatic tone. “We’re most of the way through the teardown-getting pictures and working on a virtual 3-D model.”
They came out of the pipe and arrived at a set of titanium blast doors that were part of the fifty million dollars in modifications the CIA had made. He pressed his palm against a pad set into the wall and the doors slid open to reveal a world of bright fluorescent light, stainless steel, and glass. No fewer than twenty people were milling around what had once been one of Pakistan’s most advanced nuclear weapons. Now it was nothing more than endless rows of individual parts laid out on a stark white floor.
“I hope you know how to put that thing back together,” Rapp said as the doors slid closed behind them.