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His face was dotted with bandages that a few hours ago had matched his skin tone but were now dark with blood. He began peeling them off, pulling glass from the wounds he hadn’t had time to clean during his escape. None were serious enough to need stitches, though the half-moon slice on the bridge of his nose was deeper than he’d realized. That one had been too close. Less than a centimeter from his right eye.
He couldn’t help but be reminded of the severe acne he’d suffered as a teenager, the damage from which had been repaired during the plastic surgeries he’d undergone before going to work for Maxim Krupin.
The phone lying on the counter next to him came to life with a number that belonged to the president’s secure cell. Azarov considered ignoring the call, but giving into that temptation would be unwise in the extreme. Instead, he inserted a Bluetooth headset and picked up.
“Good evening, sir.”
“What the hell happened, Grisha? My people in Pakistan report that Mitch Rapp is still alive and that he has the weapon.”
“I can’t confirm those reports with certainty, sir. But they seem credible.”
Krupin let out a lengthy string of expletives in Russian. “I should have seen through your false bravado and known you’d fail me.”
It was an entirely predictable revision of their last meeting. Azarov had done nothing to hide his concerns regarding a confrontation with Rapp and had gone so far as to recommend against it. Krupin, though, would never admit to an error and was already shifting the blame. It was always odd to watch these deflections because of the strange honesty to them. Azarov had come to believe that they were less a deliberate reaction to failure than an unconscious one. Krupin saw himself as infallible and lapses in his own judgment tended to cause unbearable cognitive dissonance. Typically, that dissonance was resolved at the expense of one of his underlings.
“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?”
