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The chance of him getting two corpses out of the building and safely stashed out of sight had been right around zero. The only vehicle available was the motorbike, and some kind of half-assedWeekend at Bernie’sride into the desert would attract attention even in war-torn Idlib. The other option—stacking them up in an unused corner of the building—would have been even worse. After a few days, the stench would become overwhelming.
Cutting a hole in the compressor tank was the best solution he could come up with. Getting both of them inside had been a messy meat puzzle, but he’d finally managed. Hopefully, the seal would be airtight, but with the pressure buildup as the bodies decomposed, hewasn’t sure. Maybe he’d pick up some epoxy along with that Rust-Oleum.
The tiny enclosure on the second level wasn’t much to look at. There was a mattress on the floor and a bathroom with water filtered through a system that would keep him from falling prey to the cholera outbreak making its rounds. A set of metal lockers lined one wall and he used his key to open them. Inside, he found the treasure trove Kennedy’s contacts had left for him. A laptop, a satellite link, and a Russian GSh-18 pistol that would have to suffice in a country more or less devoid of Glock products. In the category of creature comforts, there was a sleeping bag, various changes of clothes, and basic toiletries. He grabbed a toothbrush and used it gratefully while inventorying his food supply, cash, and collection of passports.
All as promised. Not a long-term solution, but enough to either deal with Aleksandr Semenov or to decide it was impossible and escape the country.
He powered up the laptop and waited for the proprietary operating system to request a password. Once entered, he was able to access a file folder containing various satellite photos of Semenov’s facility as well as drawings that denoted its scale. Using the trackpad, he added what he knew from his time there and what he’d been told by Kadir.
While he wasn’t exactly the most reliable man Rapp had ever debriefed, his memory of personnel and layout seemed credible. The biggest blank was the facility’s modern section, which Kadir had never seen, and Rapp had only spent a few minutes in. Semenov’s quarters were almost certainly on the top floor with his office—that’s where the massive windows and access to the rooftop deck were. Other than that, the layout was hazy. Kennedy would almost certainly be capable of getting plans from her informants in Moscow, but had deemed it too risky. Any sudden interest in this remote outpost was bound to attract attention.
A second file folder contained more overhead photos, but thesewere focused less on the building and more on activity. The geeks at Langley had managed to identify individuals by their physical characteristics and use that to corroborate Kadir’s estimates: between fifty and sixty workers, with no fewer than twenty-five armed. Inmates could be occasionally seen in an interior courtyard and the Agency also agreed with Kadir’s estimate of twenty.
The chopper Rapp had flown in on was almost always on-premise and it appeared to be the only aircraft that ever came in or out. Based on the luxury retrofit he’d noted, it was almost certainly reserved for travel by Semenov. No airstrip existed to allow planes to land. All shipments—human or otherwise—came in by truck.
Langley’s analysts had taken their best shot at piecing together a timetable for those shipments and had done a workmanlike job. Food and other supplies arrived regularly from Damascus and various port towns, but with the random schedules and vehicles common in countries ravaged by war. Much more interesting were the inflows and outflows of test subjects. While also not on anything that could be described as a precise schedule, the procedures and timing seemed much more rigid.
There were no pictures of the test subject trucks leaving the facility, likely because they were timed to avoid US spy satellites. He knew how things worked from Kadir, though. The Russians piled all the people they were done with into the back of a transport, before taking them to the desert for disposal. The truck then came into satellite view near the town of al-Taibah, continued to the Sednaya prison, and then visited a refugee camp northeast of Damascus. After that, it took a consistent route back to Semenov’s facility. Once again, its arrival was timed to avoid US surveillance.
Rapp scooted back on the mattress, leaning against the concrete wall behind. There was a hell of a lot of open territory around Semenov’s compound and it was certain that the men in the towers would be keeping a close watch over it. Also possible were electronic sensors. Maybe even land mines.
The luxury accommodation, big windows, and tricked-out helicopter suggested that Semenov was comfortable there. And why not? His facility was in the middle of nowhere, well secured by Syrian standards, and within easy reach of aircraft from Russia’s base in Hmeimim. Undoubtedly, he figured he could do whatever he wanted there without fear of reprisal.
And until now, he’d been right.
CHAPTER 35
SOUTHWEST OF AL-QADR
SYRIA
ALEKSANDRSemenov took a sip of his vodka and then went back to studying the reports in front of him. For the first time in memory, they had no scientific component. No trials, no failures, theories, or novel chemical compounds. The new captagon formulation gave every indication of being in its final iteration. After years of effort, its addictiveness, long-term damage, and cost had been fully optimized. In a few weeks, they’d bring in another group of test subjects to make absolutely sure there were no issues, but neither he nor the research team anticipated anything but unequivocal success.
Unfortunately, that success would generate an entirely new set of problems: scaling production, expanding his distribution network, and pushing into new Western European countries. Systems with high levels of complexity were normally his forte but, strangely, he was struggling to concentrate on the pages in front of him.
Or maybe it wasn’t so strange.
Semenov laid the folder next to him on the sofa and gazed towardthe massive windows in front of him. Through them, spotlights highlighted the fence line and contrasted the darkness beyond. The object of his interest, though, was somewhat closer.
Tonight, Alea was wearing a red satin dress that was a bit less demure than the one she’d worn during their first encounter. She was sitting in a chair near the glass with her thighs—visible to ten centimeters above the knee—clamped tightly together.
Her skin glistened with a thin film of sweat that matched the sheen of the satin almost exactly. This time she was further along in her captagon withdrawal. Not enough to make her outwardly ill, but enough to give her a preview of the suffering that would soon begin without his intervention. In his experience, timing was everything. The evening he had planned was to be significantly more adventurous than their last and he’d need a bit more pliability.
She stared past him with dark, youthful eyes. The anticipation was as horrifying to her as it was delicious to him. Unable to scream, cry, or commiserate with her fellow inmates, she could do nothing but imagine what the next few hours would entail. He focused for a moment on where the hem of her dress met her skin and then reached for the folder again.
In truth, the kinds of mundane operational details it contained were better handled by others. He was a creator. A visionary. His work was done and there was no reason for him to continue on in Syria. But what did that mean? Would the president allow him to return? Could he afford for Semenov to reenter the Kremlin triumphant? And if not, was he still clinging to enough power to prevent it?
A contrite knock on the door caused Alea to look hopefully in its direction. As always, Semenov had provided instruction that he wasn’t to be disturbed that evening unless it was urgent. The anger he’d normally feel at the intrusion was overpowered by curiosity. Could it be the information he’d been waiting for?
“Come!”
The man who stepped through was a former Wagner Groupcommander with above-average intelligence for a man in his profession. His fatigues were badly bloodstained, with some of it still wet enough to gleam crimson under the overhead lights. The girl’s eyes widened in horror and Semenov reveled in it for a moment before turning his attention to the man now standing at attention in front of him.
“What?”
“Lenkov finally broke. He held out longer than I would have thought.”
Indeed. It had been three days since the young soldier allowed Matthieu Fournier to escape. Three days of extraordinary physical suffering, while Semenov’s was more intellectual. He’d been forced to spend the last seventy-two hours speculating without data—an activity he abhorred.
