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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.
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Krupin said as they all stood.
He singled out a few of the most influential men for a brief nod and then took a place at the head of the table.
