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A little scrubbing with a bar towel wetted with ice finished the job. He retreated back to the sofa and had barely managed to skim though the contents of the flash drive before his phone rang.
“Yes.”
“Can I assume that you’ve had your meeting and that it ended as I requested?” Maxim Krupin’s voice.
“You can.”
“And you’ve reviewed the information I sent?”
“Only in a very cursory way, sir.”
“I, on the other hand, have gone through it in great detail.”
That was undoubtedly meant to be more confidence inspiring than it actually was. Krupin was a genius at political backstabbing but had no real operational experience. He’d embellished the handful of years he’d spent with the KGB into something straight out of an American adventure film but the reality was quite different. He’d been responsible for spying on political dissidents and very occasionally ordering the assassination of a young idealist or aging political agitator. His understanding of men like Mitch Rapp was nonexistent.
“I think you’ll be quite satisfied with the plan, Grisha.”
Azarov took a slow sip of his bourbon, savoring the flavor while he calculated how much to say. “I’m concerned about working with Pakistani Taliban while Rapp will be supported by Scott Coleman and his men.”
“The Taliban have strong local knowledge and are willing to give their lives to ensure that you accomplish your goal.”
“I think we can be certain that Coleman’s people will be reasonably knowledgeable about their operating environment as well. And I suspect that there isn’t one of them who wouldn’t lay down his life for a teammate. Further, they’re extraordinarily well trained, speak the same language as Rapp, and have a lengthy history of carrying out successful operations with him.”
“I selected these men personally,” Krupin said, the anger starting to creep into his voice. “Not only for their skill but for their commitment to the mission.”
It was, of course, a complete lie. Krupin had selected these men because they couldn’t be traced back to him. Their skill or lack thereof was a secondary consideration at best.
“Thank you for involving yourself personally,” Azarov said, knowing that there was nothing to be gained from further discussion. “I understand the demands on your time.”
“Not at all, Grisha. I have no priorities more important than your well-being. Other than perhaps your happiness. You continue to demonstrate your value. How can I express my appreciation?”
It was a question that had been asked many times during their relationship, but one that was becoming increasingly difficult to answer. Another car? He had a Bugatti Veyron sitting in storage in Canada and a Bentley Continental in a garage outside Geneva, to name only a few. Another house? He had four—three of which he hadn’t visited in years. The only thing he wanted was the one thing he would never be granted. Freedom.
“That’s very generous of you, sir. Please give me time to consider the offer.”
“Of course.”
The line went dead and Azarov set his phone down, staring at the body lying near the door.
In a way, he envied Krupin and men like him. They were blessed with insatiable appetites that had to be constantly fed. Money, power, possessions, women. It would never be enough. A billion euros would have to become two billion. The adulation and obedience of ninety percent of the population would have to grow to one hundred percent. Krupin and the oligarchs would scrape and strive until their last breath, never knowing a moment’s doubt, introspection, or regret. Never considering there were aspects of life that existed outside their simple philosophy of more.
For a long time, Azarov had felt like he was drowning. Not the panicked, desperate death that most people would associate with that kind of end, though. More a sense of waves lapping over him and of a cold, endless darkness below. The road ahead was empty. He had nothing he wanted. Nothing worth fighting for.
Now, though, there was the strange sensation of adrenaline leaking into him. Soon, he would face Mitch Rapp, a man he had spent his adult life actively avoiding. There had never been any reason to court a confrontation, but now that it was inevitable he was starting to feel . . . what? Excitement? Fear? Those were clumsy words that had little meaning to him. But he felt something. Something to break up—or perhaps end—the existence he’d become trapped in.
CHAPTER 10
FAISALABAD
PAKISTAN
RAPP didn’t bother lowering the jet’s stairs, instead jumping to the tarmac and jogging toward a car parked at the edge of the runway. The clear skies and cool breezes of the Western Cape were now thousands of miles away, replaced by Pakistan’s familiar heat and yellow haze.
His flight plan had been for Islamabad, but they’d been diverted one hundred fifty miles south to Faisalabad without explanation. Based on the blond hair barely visible through the filthy windshield of a Honda Civic waiting for him, the news wasn’t good. Scott Coleman was a former Navy SEAL and the principal in SEAL Demolition and Salvage, a private outfit that existed largely as backup for Rapp in ops that were best left off the books.
“Hot enough for you?” Coleman said as Rapp slid into the passenger seat. “The weather guys say we’re going to break a hundred and eight this afternoon.”
They weren’t normally prone to talking about the weather, but those kinds of numbers had to be accounted for when planning operations. At best, speed, stamina, and precision would be compromised. At worst, heat stroke and dehydration could take out even an experienced desert operative.
