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A number of makeshift tents had cropped up beneath the graffiti-covered concrete that made up the first floor. The inhabitants were a perfect example of Maxim Krupin’s subjects. Cold and hungry, but still loyal. Still waiting for him to deliver on his promise to once again make the world tremble at their feet.
The basset hound in the passenger seat spotted something of interest and barked joyously as they moved onto a broad avenue. Azarov had requested that the bomb-sniffing dog be waiting for him when he landed. Fortunately, it had turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. The animal’s well-trained nose had turned up nothing in its examination of the car Krupin had provided.
Another four kilometers brought him to a nondescript glass-and-steel building on an even more nondescript side street. He passed by the entrance leading into the parking garage, driving another block before parallel parking next to the sidewalk. The hound’s tail wagged excitedly when Azarov opened the door but then went still when he frowned and shook his head. “You have to stay here. I won’t be long.”
It seemed to understand his words and curled up on the seat, closing its eyes. He’d never owned an animal before, but it was hard not to acknowledge the appeal of having a friend that would never turn on him, spy on him, or try to kill him. Now that Olga was gone, maybe it was something he should look into. He could pay Cara to take care of it when he was gone. Another excuse to see her without exposing his feelings.
Azarov traversed the sidewalk and entered the lobby he’d driven past. As always, the front desk was empty and he went directly to the lone elevator at the rear. It opened automatically at his approach and he stepped in. There were no buttons, so he just stood there, moving a hand subtly toward his gun as he began to descend.
The elevator had been designed as a death trap. It could be dropped, filled with gas, or simply fired upon when the doors opened. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to hope that none of those options were currently on the table.
When he came to a stop and the doors slid back, the spec ops unit he half expected to find was absent. Instead, he saw nothing but the familiar gray corridor broken by a single door on the right. He listened to the sound of his footsteps and the hum of the cameras tracking his progress as he approached the door. It, too, slid open and he entered, but then stopped short before fully crossing the threshold.
The large conference table that normally dominated the room was gone and a massive desk had been placed near the rear wall. Sitting behind it was Maxim Krupin.
“Mr. President,” Azarov said, not bothering to hide his surprise at the man’s presence. “I wasn’t expecting you to conduct this meeting personally.”
Azarov studied the room as he spoke, looking for any hint that this was a trap. But there was nothing. In light of that and the fact that he hadn’t been relieved of his firearm, it seemed that no attack was imminent. Whether this would be a positive development in the long run remained to be seen.
The Russian president’s physical presence suggested that the situation was even more dangerous than Azarov’s worst-case projection. The fact that Krupin would agree to leave the security of the Moscow and resurface in a forgotten FSB outpost was extremely telling. Not only was he unwilling to include his most trusted advisors in this meeting, he didn’t even want to give Azarov his orders inside the walls of the Kremlin.
“Sit,” Krupin said simply.
Azarov took a chair in front of the desk and the president turned a laptop toward him.
“Do you know what this is?”
The image on screen was immediately recognizable. “A map of Saudi Arabia.”
“And the highlighted area?”
“The country’s most significant oil-producing region. The majority of Saudi Arabia’s oil comes from there.”
“Historically, the Saudis have acted as swing producers,” Krupin said, lecturing Azarov on matters he was fully aware of from his cover as an energy consultant. “But they’ve ceased acting responsibly in that role. They insist on producing at full capacity, depressing energy prices worldwide.”
“They’re committed to keeping renewables economically nonviable and American production unprofitable.”
Krupin tapped a key, switching to a photo of a room with a floor covered in bomb-making equipment. “And this?”
Along one wall were six medium-size wooden crates. It wasn’t hard to guess what was in them, and Azarov felt his mouth go dry. “I assume that your operations in Pakistan were successful and that the boxes contain fissile material from Pakistani nuclear warheads. It appears that the material is being used to build dirty bombs.”
It could have been much worse, Azarov tried to remind himself. At least these weren’t the sophisticated nuclear bombs he had feared Krupin was building. “Beyond that, I can only speculate.”
“Please do.”
“You’ll place them at strategic points in the Saudi oil fields and detonate them. It will completely shut down extraction and refining in the area for the foreseeable future.”
“Very good, Grisha. But you make one mistake. It won’t be me placing the bombs, it will be you. Our military forecasters say a front is coming in that will create ideal wind conditions.”
“Of course,” Azarov said numbly.
“With the exception of your failure to kill Mitch Rapp, you’ve served me well. This will be your final task. When you return, I’ll give you a position of power in my administration. Or, if you prefer, I will make you an oligarch. Dmitry Utkin’s assets are still under my control. Since you were the one who killed him, it would be fitting for you to be the one to inherit his empire.”
“I’m not sure I’m the wisest choice for this operation, Mr. President. After my confrontation with Scott Coleman, it’s possible that the CIA knows my identity. Surely you have access to skilled men that the Americans are unaware of.”
Krupin nodded thoughtfully. “It’s possible that they know who you are. But it’s also possible that Irene Kennedy’s suspicions go well beyond the matter of your identity. Russia’s future turns on this single event, Grisha. Will we be great again or will we rot and fade into irrelevance? I can’t trust something this important to anyone else.”
“But if the Americans have suspicions, they may be able to trace this back to you. Certainly the fact that spiking oil prices will benefit Mother Russia won’t be lost on the rest of the world.”
