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GRISHA Azarov had taken one of only three hammocks belowdecks. The men assigned to him had commandeered the other two, as well as the limited number of mats spread out below. Crewmembers not on duty were left to sleep among the crates stacked throughout the already claustrophobic space.
By his watch, he had been on the vessel for less than eight hours, but it already felt like days. The captain assured him that they were making good time—the sails were full of the wind so important to Krupin’s plans.
Azarov tried to meditate on the details of the operation, but his mind wandered to Mitch Rapp. Was their confrontation approaching? Would the conflict between them be resolved in the coming days? Maybe even in the coming hours?
It was obvious what defeat would bring, but what would victory feel like? Pride at seeing the CIA man’s lifeless body at his feet? Relief at having neutralized a threat that otherwise would have kept coming until one of them was dead? Or maybe nothing more than the same numbness he always felt when he took a life.
A frightened shout drifted down to him from the main deck. The words were in Arabic, but Azarov understood enough of them to tease out a meaning. The Americans had taken an interest in their modest vessel and were moving to intercept.
Crewmembers scrambled for the ladder leading upward while Azarov’s men began desperately moving crates. Finally, they managed to expose the relevant section of decking and Azarov pulled up three unattached boards, exposing an electric winch.
He flipped a switch and then glued the boards back down with a bottle of instant adhesive. His men immediately began moving the crates back to their original positions over the winch. As they did, the fissile material attached to the hull began to descend at the end of a hundred-meter-long cable. In less than two minutes, their critical cargo would be resting in the silt at the bottom of the Gulf.
When everything was in order, they ascended the ladder to the main deck. Azarov took an anonymous position near the middle of the line of crewmen anxiously watching the approach of an American coast guard vessel.
Charged with contributing to Gulf security, the modern white-and-red Island-class cutter seemed hopelessly out of place against the Middle Eastern backdrop. That made the situation no less dangerous, though.
It pulled alongside and a boarding craft closed the gap between the two vessels at a speed that suggested a certain amount of urgency. An Arab translator came up the cargo net first, speaking to the captain as uniformed members of the American crew followed.
The dog that appeared next was expected. Though not the Arabs’ favorite creatures, they were quite useful in searching for drugs and weapons. The Geiger counter that came up shortly thereafter, though, was definitely not a standard piece of boarding equipment. Of even more concern were the American divers tipping backward into the water.
Russian spec ops had assured him that the size and color of the cable made it virtually invisible when submerged. Further, the Gulf’s current would loop it away from the vessel, making it extremely unlikely that a diver would collide with it.
Again, Azarov felt himself being pulled out of the present—a dangerous vice that seemed to get worse as the years dragged on. What would happen to him if Krupin’s weapons were discovered? Of course, he and the crew would be taken into custody and the dhow would be put in tow behind the Coast Guard ship. The fact that he wasn’t from this region would be quickly discovered, and that discovery would likely be followed by a transfer to one of the CIA’s black sites. Is that how he was destined to meet Mitch Rapp? Not on the battlefield but chained to a chair in some forgotten corner of the world?
Azarov looked around him and saw that his men were visibly nervous. No more so than the crew, though. The sailors were simple, uneducated men, and it was unlikely that their demeanor would seem unusual to the Americans.
After less than five minutes, the Coast Guard sailors searching belowdecks reappeared and delivered their report. In five minutes more, the frogmen reappeared.
And then it was over.
Azarov remained on deck, watching the Americans return to their ship and the captain of the dhow making preparations to get them back under way. Only when the coast guard cutter began to steam away did Azarov go back belowdecks to reel in their contraband.
CHAPTER 43
AL
-SHIRQAT
IRAQ
THE gunfire at the edge of town had been silent for almost half an hour, but vehicles full of armed men were still streaking toward the former girls’ school. With no communications more sophisticated than short-range radios, all they could do was speculate and point themselves in the general direction of the commotion.
Rapp heard a series of individual gunshots to the east and he paused as they were answered with multiple bursts from automatic weapons. The back-and-forth went on for about thirty seconds before going silent.
Mohammed’s brother had driven them to the edge of town where they’d split up on foot. Based on the direction and distance, it seemed unlikely that any of his team were mixed up in that firefight. More likely it was two groups of ISIS morons getting worked up and shooting at each other.
He avoided the main street, threading his way through the back alleys that led in the general direction of Eric Jesem’s apartment. Another forty minutes of cautious progress brought him to the entrance of the building he now called home. After confirming that no one was watching, he slipped inside and silently climbed the stairs.
Laleh was pacing across the main room when he opened the door. She jerked to a stop and spun in his direction. “My brothers. Are they—”
“They’re both fine,” Rapp said, angling toward one of the two chairs in the room. Instead of sitting, he slammed a foot into it, shattering the spindly legs. A few seconds of picking through the debris turned up a wedge-shaped piece that he could shove into the gap beneath the front door. It wouldn’t stop a motivated intruder, but it would slow them down.
“What are you doing?” Laleh asked as he tore a long strip of cloth from the blackout shade covering the window.
“We’re sharing the bed tonight,” he responded. “Get undressed. You can leave your underwear on.”
“What? No! I won’t let you touch me.”
