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London
England
AND now I’m told I shot an innocent man,” Grisha Azarov said, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands.
The psychologist sitting across from him wore a perfectly calibrated expression of sympathy. As he should at the prices he was charging.
“But, Grisha, that man is going to survive and the terrorist holding him was gravely injured by the same bullet. The authorities have given me access to the files describing what happened in Monte Carlo, and your actions were nothing short of heroic. Your cool head saved lives. You need to focus on that.”
Azarov didn’t bother to look up, having already examined every detail in the bland office. What else was there to do during these mind-numbing meetings?
“Grisha?”
He tried to come up with something convincing to say. These sessions were critical to the fiction he’d created in Monaco and there was no guarantee that a foreign intelligence agency wouldn’t get hold of the notes from them. He’d done everything possible to look like an amateur—awkward sprints, suboptimal shots, and terrified expressions.
There was no telling if it would be enough, though, so now he was here dealing with nonexistent feelings of fear, guilt, and lingering panic. It was really quite laughable. His ability to conjure these emotions was so limited that he’d been forced to spend hours watching footage of people with PTSD and practicing in the mirror. Cara would have been quite impressed with his perfo
rmance, he imagined. She was always trying to get him to share feelings that existed only in her imagination.
“It’s not just the hostage,” Grisha said finally. He would have liked to get some tears flowing, but the only thing that had the power to do that was onions. “It’s the terrorists.”
“Please go on.”
“I know they’re evil. I’ve spent my career in the Middle East. But they’re also human beings. How can I understand where they came from? What they’ve been taught from the time they were children? I don’t even know if they fully understand their actions. And I killed them.”
“Taking a human life is one of the most traumatic things a person of conscience can do. But you have to acknowledge that those men had no intention of ever leaving that place. They . . .”
Azarov tuned the man out and glanced at the clock. Ten more minutes until the session was finished. He’d soon leave London, arguing that he needed a change of scenery and to avoid the potential spotlight. The authorities had agreed to keep his identity confidential, but there was always the concern that cell phone footage would surface.
Kent and Donatella were already taking a circuitous route back to Africa. Mitch and Claudia would soon follow.
The question was: Would he do the same? He still wasn’t sure the benefits of his involvement outweighed the risks. Unquestionably, Mitch Rapp’s gratitude might prove valuable one day. But there was more. On some level he missed the excitement. No, “excitement” wasn’t the right word. The challenge. The thrill of being able to do things that only three or four men on the planet would even attempt.
But maybe it was time to consider going home. Rapp wouldn’t be pleased, but he was a man of honor. They would shake hands and part ways amicably.
He pondered the issue while his therapist continued to drone on, finally deciding to stand with Rapp and his people. After the operation was done, he would return to his life with Cara. He’d surf and work on his house. He’d make normal friends and tour all the places he’d been to but never really seen. He’d let her give away a significant portion of his hard-earned fortune to the poor. And he’d forget everything he’d once been.
“I think we’re reaching the end of our time,” the psychologist said.
The man’s words pulled Azarov back to the present and he stood, extending a hand. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m finding these sessions to be very helpful.”
“Same time tomorrow, then?”
“I look forward to it.”
He strode from the office and exited into a light London rain. The narrow side street was choked with parked cars but otherwise empty as he started along the sidewalk. When he came up behind a black limousine, the rear window opened.
“Mr. Azarov? May I have a moment of your time?”
“Who are you?” he said, displaying the expected confusion.
“My name is Aali Nassar. I’m the director of Saudi intelligence.”
Claudia had emailed about this. Prince bin Musaid had been killed, but apparently not before naming Nassar as the man behind the financing of ISIS. She’d been concerned that he might try to make contact while he was in London, and it seemed that her concerns were well-founded.
Azarov let recognition slowly register in his expression. “Of course. I work with your colleague the energy minister.”
“I’m aware of that,” he said, opening the door. “Would you like to get out of the rain for a moment?”
