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With no time to bring the pistol up in front of him, Azarov fired it from an awkward position near his hip. The round went a bit lower than intended, hitting the man just below and to the right of his nose. Sloppy, but still sufficient to spray the contents of his head across the panicked Dmitry Utkin.
The man to Azarov’s left fired and, as expected, the bullet went high. This time, Azarov was able to extend his arm fully and his shot impacted directly between the guard’s eyes.
Azarov shoved the pistol into the back of the man beneath him, using it to propel himself to his feet while firing a single round. A moment later he was standing with the weapon’s sights lined up on Utkin.
The aging oligarch had his hand wrapped around an old Makarov pistol but he froze just as it cleared the drawer. Unbidden, he dropped it and backed away with his hands in the air.
“You live up to your reputation, Grisha.”
He was neither stupid nor a coward. He knew what was coming and would die defiant and on his feet. It was how Azarov preferred it. There was something about killing cowards that he found distasteful.
“I’m sorry our meeting will end like this.”
Krupin had ordered him to shoot the man in the stomach and then to deliver a lengthy diatribe about the futility of defiance, but Azarov considered it both pointless and disrespectful. He fired a single round into Utkin’s forehead, followed by a round to the stomach in case Krupin should ever bother to look at the police reports.
He then set the pistol on the desk and went to help Zhestakov to his feet. The businessman’s eyes were wide and wet, and he backed away until he bumped into the wall.
“Dmitry’s empire is temporarily yours,” Azarov said, straightening his coat and checking for any blood that might have spattered on him. “You’ll manage its breakup and distribution to the other oligarchs and then you’ll take a position of responsibility in one of their organizations. Is that acceptable?”
He nodded silently.
“The president wants you to understand that he doesn’t blame you for Utkin’s behavior and admires your business acumen.”
Azarov didn’t bother to wait for a second hesitant nod, instead turning and stepping over one of the bodies on his way to the door.
Once outside, he dialed the phone in his pocket.
“Can I assume that Dmitry was uncooperative?” Maxim Krupin’s voice.
“Yes.”
“And that you’ve taken care of it?”
“Yes.”
“You handled the situation even more quickly than I expected. I thought that piece of filth would keep you there for hours whining about corruption and the fall of Russia.”
“May I ask the status of the Mitch Rapp operation?” Azarov said, changing the subject. There was little value in discussing Dmitry Utkin further. The threat he posed was at an end. This was very much not the case with the American CIA agent.
“A rare error on your part, Grisha. Everything is moving forward smoothly. The reconnaissance and preparations are complete and it appears that taking the woman will be a simple matter.”
“I’m pleased to have been wrong,” he said without conviction. He could still feel the slight queasiness he always suffered when Rapp’s name came up. Azarov had no involvement in Krupin’s Pakistan operation or in his plans to keep Rapp from interfering. It was the way he preferred it. At least for now.
“Tell me,” Krupin said, obviously not willing to allow his subordinate to direct the conversation. “Did Dmitry beg?”
“Yes,” Azarov lied.
“The man was a pig,” he said, sounding predictably pleased. “He cared nothing about Mother Russia.”
“And yet he was a powerful man who the oligarchs looked to for leadership.”
“Your point?”
“You didn’t exile him, sir. You killed him. Are you certain that distributing his assets to the others is going to be enough to appease them? There’s a difference between intimidation and fear. The latter can make men unpredictable.”
“He was gunned down like the animal he was. They could expect no different outcome.”
“Yes, sir.”
