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“I haven’t,” Claudia responded.
“Why don’t you take her on a tour, Cara?”
“Sure. The toucans are usually out this time of the afternoon. Grab your wine. It’s easy walking.”
Rapp watched the two women descend from the deck and disappear into the jungle.
“May I join you?” Azarov asked.
“Please.”
They sat and Rapp took the opportunity to examine the man. The cuts from the glass that had shattered in his face were long healed and whatever scars remained were obscured by his tan. He’d put on a few pounds, taking the edge off the gaunt, professional endurance athlete look he’d had before. Rounding out his new softer image was a blond head of hair about the same shade as Scott Coleman’s.
Most of the change, though, wasn’t physical. The man was extraordinarily talented and well trained, but had lived most of his adult life as little more than a slave to Maxim Krupin. Now he looked . . . happy. In fact, he looked happy enough to make Rapp wonder if he’d made a mistake coming there.
“Vacation?” Azarov said, sipping an ice water. “Or have you managed to bring in a team that I missed?”
“No team. Just us.”
“Why? You’ve had two opportunities to kill me and you’ve taken neither. I assume your people are watching me, and if that’s the case, you know I’m no longer in contact with the Russian government.”
It was true as far as anyone had been able to tell. Azarov’s first order of business after divesting of most of the foreign property that he no longer needed was learning to surf. The fact that he’
d been an Olympic-level biathlete and was sleeping with a full-time instructor hadn’t hurt. With the exception of a run-in with three territorial Hawaiian locals—one of whom was still relearning how to walk—his pursuit of the sport had gone spectacularly.
Recently, though, he’d reconnected with the successful consulting company he’d used as a cover operation, appointing a new CEO and taking over as chairman of the board. It wasn’t a particularly demanding position but it also wasn’t one he in any way needed. As far as the Agency could tell, he had a net worth of more than one hundred million dollars and spent less than two thousand of it every month.
Rapp’s silence caused the Russian to become wary. “I trust your friend Scott Coleman is still doing well?”
“Yeah. Should be back in a year or so. That’s not why I’m here.”
“What, then?”
“How’s the quiet life?” Rapp asked, not yet ready to answer the man’s question.
“I enjoy it. I enjoy my time with Cara. The freedom. And how about you? I have to admit that, based on your history together, a relationship with Claudia Gould is surprising.”
“Sometimes you have to let things go.”
“An enlightened attitude, but not one I would have ascribed to Mitch Rapp. How is her daughter? Anna, isn’t it? After your late wife. She must be what? Six?”
“Seven.”
“Ah,” he said noncommittally, and then took another sip of his drink.
“So,” Rapp said, glancing behind him to make sure Cara hadn’t reappeared. “You wouldn’t be interested in a small side job.”
Azarov’s initial surprise was obvious but then he gave an understanding nod. “I took out the head of your backup team. You need a replacement and you feel I owe you.”
“No. I’ve gotten tangled up in something Scott and his boys can’t be involved in.”
“I see. And if I say no?”
“Then we’ll have dinner and I doubt we’ll ever see each other again.”
Azarov looked past him at the clouds building on the horizon. “How long?”
“A few weeks. Certainly no longer than a month.”
