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The western wing was more modern in design and clearly much newer. It rose an additional story, with long, unbroken windows on three sides of the top floor. There was even a rooftop deck with a canopy for shade, two sectional sofas, and potted palm trees. Someone—almost certainly the person who’d buffed out the chopper—was living large out there.
The fence that encircled the compound was chain-link and topped liberally with razor wire. In total, there were five towers: four at the corners and one looming over a guardhouse that covered the only entrance to the grounds. The barrier protecting it was surprisingly unintimidating—a slightly beefier version of the one on the garage supplemented by retractable tire spikes. At this time of morning, the entrance appeared to be unmanned and a set of rolling chain-link gates had been closed across it. Mostly likely they were only open when visitors were expected. Overall, the impression was of a reworked commercial property, as opposed to a purpose-built prison or military facility.
Its main security feature was the flat, open terrain that surrounded it. Anyone trying to attack or escape would be visible for miles.
The pilot slowed to a hover and then dropped onto a helipad just inside the northwestern fence line. The mercenaries immediately opened the door and jumped to the ground, pulling him out after them. Dust swirled in the rotor wash as they jogged toward the building and entered a steel door at the back. They passed through a stairwell andexited into a passage that led to a large, disused lobby with an elevator on the western side.
They entered and it rose for a few seconds before opening onto an outer office nearly the size of Irene Kennedy’s at Langley. The difference was that this one was significantly more elegant and completely devoid of personnel. It gave the impression of something that had been built less for utility than for show.
Rapp and his three remaining guards entered an office at the back and stopped in the middle. The man sitting behind the desk that dominated the room was in his mid-forties, with a medium build and a pallor that suggested a religious avoidance of the rooftop deck. His uniform was that of a Russian general, with emblems and medals suggesting a long and distinguished career.
All complete bullshit.
While Rapp was hardly expert on the Russians, he knew enough to recognize Aleksandr Semenov. The man was well known to have never spent a day in the military, instead coming up through the intelligence ranks to lead his country’s asymmetrical warfare program.
After giving the world a good, long look at Russia’s shit military and losing their ability to hold Europe hostage with energy exports, all the once-powerful country had left were nukes and backstabbing. The former tended not to be a particularly convenient weapon to deploy, but they’d turned the latter into a formidable force on the world stage. Hacking, interference in foreign elections, support of fascist movements worldwide, bribery, assassination. If it was sleazy, pointless, and destructive, Russia—or more specifically, Aleksandr Semenov—was at the cutting edge.
It was impressive in a sick kind of way but, according to some CIA analysts, maybe a little too impressive. Semenov had disappeared from everyone’s radar a few years back and the conventional wisdom was that he’d either been quietly executed or locked away in some remote prison. The theory was that Boris Utkin had been forced to deal with him while he still had the power to do so.
Another swing and a miss by the Agency’s eggheads. Semenov was not only alive, he looked to be the picture of health.
The Russian looked up from the file he was reading and spoke in excellent English. “Matthieu. It’s good to finally meet you.”
Thankfully, there was no recognition in his eyes. His method of warfare wasn’t one that often crossed into Rapp’s sphere of influence. But you could never be sure. He was an admittedly brilliant man whose reach was apparently longer than Western intelligence agencies suspected.
He pointed and barked something at one of the mercs. A moment later, Rapp was free of the cuffs and his escort had retreated to the outer office.
“My compliments to Damian Losa and his organization. Tracking you to that farmhouse and getting you out alive was quite impressive. Even more so was getting you across the border into Israel. Apparently, we haven’t done as much damage to his Syrian network as we thought.”
Rapp had been maintaining an expression of stunned terror since he’d been handed over by the Mossad. Now he added a hint of confusion.
“But why? Why have you kidnapped me? I’m here as a negotiator. Beyond that, I have no value at all. Mr. Losa won’t concede anything to get me back. Lawyers aren’t hard to find if you have money.”
“I wouldn’t want to be seen openly negotiating with a criminal organization, would I?”
An unintentionally ironic statement. The Russian government was nothing but a massive crime family. A little like the movieThe Godfather, but with characters that were stupider, drunker, and armed with nukes. Probably better not to say that out loud, though.
“Also,” he continued, “I doubt your Damian Losa would agree to my terms.”
“You shouldn’t make that assumption. What are your terms? At the very least, that’d give us a place to start.”
“Why don’t you tell me about your client, Matthieu?”
“I know very little. Nothing really. I want to be clear that I’m not a criminal, sir. I’m an attorney representing the business interests of a client.”
“Youronlyclient,” Semenov said, tapping the file he’d been reading. “You have no others, isn’t that correct? You have no employees and work out of your penthouse flat in Toronto. My people searched it and found very little. No papers, no computer. No indication that you have any close family or friendships that go deeper than acquaintance.”
“I don’t use paper, and when I travel, I put my computer in a safe-deposit box. On the subject of personal relationships, I have very little time for them.”
“Or the vulnerabilities they create,” Semenov said.
“You’ve elevated my importance beyond its reality, sir. Again, I’m just here to discuss how all parties can work together to succeed in their goals.”
“Where?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where is Damian Losa?”
