"Open the folder."
Dragonov did as he was told. The first page showed a picture of Don Julio Silva and listed his locations, habits and vulnerabilities.
"These men are to be eliminated. I understand you will need to make plans, but time is critical. Do it quickly. Each will be alert and each one will be heavily guarded. Plan accordingly. Do you understand?"
Dragonov said. "These are very high profile targets. I will need to recruit. I will need ordnance. All this will be expensive."
"Get what you need. You have a blank check. Hire who you want. Make sure there are no trails back here."
Foxworth took several banded packets of purple 500 Euro notes from a drawer and pushed them across his desk. Dragonov eyed the money.
"This is pocket money for personal expenses. If you need more, tell me. With each success I will give you 200,000 Euros. When all seven assignments have been completed, you will receive an additional 1,000,000 Euros in a Swiss account. I trust this will be satisfactory?"
The large man nodded.
"Good. Don't let me down."
He didn't need to say more. Dragonov had carried his predecessor's body from the library in Italy.
The Bulgarian picked up the money. "I won't fail."
"That's all."
Dragonov left the room. With Silva and the others handled, Foxworth considered what to do about Elizabeth Harker and the Project. She had to be removed, permanently. He considered possibilities, complications. The Project wasn't Langley or NSA, but their security was still formidable.
He'd been saving a unique asset for something special. Foxworth decided this was the time to use it. With the right spin there would be few consequences. No one would trace it back to him. He pictured the result, watched it happen in his mind's eye. It could be done. He smiled to himself.
Morel entered the office with his briefcase full of magic.
It was turning into a good day.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
A freighter flying the Panamanian flag churned across choppy waters fourteen miles off the Virginia coast. The Consuela had been stopped once by the US Coast Guard, a routine inspection that yielded nothing. Her papers were in order. She was bound from Vera Cruz to Norfolk with shipping containers full of furniture consigned to an American chain that specialized in items from third world countries.
The Coast Guard had opened two of the containers and brought on the drug sniffing dogs. The captain of the freighter had given them a friendly wave as they went back to their patrol boat and turned south.
Captain Krushenko was one of Foxworth's finds. Before he'd left the Russian navy he had commanded an Ovod class small missile ship. The Ovod class fielded six P-15 Termit cruise missiles, unreliable weapons with barometric altimeters and erratic guidance systems. The Termits were subsonic, reaching speeds of about 600 MPH.
Krushenko didn't have any of those. He had only one missile, a Chinese CJ-10. Unlike the Termit, the CJ-10 was supersonic, capable of traveling at two and a half times the speed of sound. It lay flat in one of the long cargo containers, surrounded by boxes of wooden trays and salad bowls.
The CJ-10 could be armed with either a nuclear warhead or conventional explosive. This one carried a generous payload of a new high energy explosive more than twice as powerful as the older types. The missile used an accurate inertial guidance system and was difficult to detect. It skimmed above the terrain at 1900 MPH until it reached and destroyed its target. Once launched, the CJ-10 was a lethal, single purpose, suicidal robot.
The distance from the Consuela to the target was approximately a hundred and seventy miles. Krushenko estimated time elapsed between launch and impact at less than twelve minutes. By the time coastal defenses could react it would be too late. That was the beauty of a cruise missile. It hugged the terrain and flew under the radar, with a low profile and high speed. Anti-missile defenses like the American AEGIS system required sufficient notice to be effective. The missile would already be over land before they detected it. There wouldn't be enough time to intercept.
Krushenko didn't know why this particular target had been chosen, but he wasn't curious. He was just doing a job. He figured he had a better than 50–50 chance of getting to shore once the missile was launched. The risk made the game more exciting. He was being paid accordingly, an extravagant sum.
The sides and top of a false cargo container had been removed, exposing the missile and launcher and a camouflage of boxes around it. Krushenko used a remote control to activate the launcher. The missile lifted into firing position.
The missile employed a cold launch system. Cold launch used pressurized nitrogen to send the missile airborne, eliminating the complex venting systems necessary for a conventional, hot launch. It was the reason the CJ-10 could be concealed in a container and fired from the deck. Once free of the carrier, the solid fuel engine would ignite and send the missile on its way. The electronic brain inside already contained the coordinates for the target.
Krushenko walked in a leisurely way to the side of the freighter and descended a sea ladder to a fast motor launch that would take him to shore and safety. His skeleton crew waited in the boat. The launch pulled away. Krushenko watched the abandoned ship sail steadily on toward Norfolk. When he judged it was far enough away, he took out his remote and triggered one of two switches.
The pressurized nitrogen released with a deadly hiss and sent the missile away from the ship. It rose into the air like an ancient, mythic sea monster. The engine ignited. The missile accelerated, broke through the sound barrier with a crack like thunder and vanished over the horizon.
Krushenko flipped the second switch. Explosions blew out the bottom of the Consuela. The ship lifted out of the water, then settled straight down, all buoyancy gone. The ocean poured over her deck. A moment later the only sign she had ever existed was a frenzied boiling of sea froth and foam on the surface.
The missile was gone. The ship was gone. The target would soon be gone. The motor launch headed for shore. Krushenko lit a cigarette and entered a number on his satellite phone.
In London, Foxworth said, "Yes."
"It's done."
"Good. Captain Krushenko, are you a religious man?"
Krushenko looked at the phone. What kind of question was that? It gave him a bad feeling.
"No. Why are you asking this?"
"Just wondering." Foxworth pressed a button. The signal went to the same satellite that carried Krushenko's encrypted transmission, then relayed down to another phone hidden in the hold of the motor launch and wired into three blocks of Semtex. A second later the launch disintegrated in an eruption of flame and debris. The sound of the explosion rolled across the waters.
Foxworth listened to the sudden silence and turned off his phone. He remembered something Benjamin Franklin had said. Three men can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Foxworth thought Franklin a wise man.
It hadn't been easy to arrange everything. But with enough money, anything was possible.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
It was an Indian Summer day, warm for early November. Elizabeth, Selena and Stephanie were eating lunch outside in the sheltered garden at the rear of the Project. They sat in the sun in the far corner, away from the building. A group of six analysts sat talking and laughing at one of the tables by the doors leading into the building.
The garden was two hundred feet long, surrounded by high concrete walls painted in desert earth tones. On the back wall was an exit door with an emergency bar on it. No one had ever needed to use it. The walls caught and held the warmth of the sun in the winter and provided seclusion and shade in summer. It was popular with everyone who worked at the Project, a favorite spot for a quick cigarette or a coffee break. Graveled walks meandered through decorative beds of flowers and under tall shade trees. This late in the year the leaves were down. The flowers were gone except for a few purple mums.