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The most plausible explanation for what had happened was that he’d been betrayed by his own forces. The Canadian’s first escape was easy to explain away by the involvement of the Syrians. They were infinitely corruptible, and it wasn’t completely implausible that Damian Losa had the resources to orchestrate the farmhouse ambush. This was different, though.
In order to carry out an ambush on the road between there and Tartus, the attacking force would have to possess extremely accurate intelligence. Information that could have only come from inside his organization. The best explanation was that Captain Lenkov and any number of other men at the facility were taking orders from Moscow. That Kremlin leaders were trying to sabotage his efforts in an attempt to weaken him politically. Or perhaps that assessment was overly optimistic. Was it possible that the men Semenov counted on for his physical well-being could come to endanger it? Would Boris Utkin dare to take such a bold course of action? It was a credible enough threat that Semenov had significantly reduced the number of men he came into direct contact with and had avoided leaving his quarters since Fournier’s disappearance.
“And?”
“There was no ambush.”
Semenov felt the sweat break across his back. “Then Lenkov orchestrated Fournier’s escape?”
“No. It’s not what we thought at all. The Canadian escaped himself.”
“What? Nonsense. He’s still lying to you.”
“I don’t think so. The discrepancies between his original account and what we found on the road now all fit. Fournier engaged the emergency brake from the passenger side and both motorcycles hit the back of the vehicle. Then he pushed the driver out through the door and went over the slope with him. He killed that man with a rock and shot another. After that, he ran for the trees. Lenkov was the only man in a condition to chase, but he couldn’t keep up. When he returned to the vehicles, one of the motorcyclists was still alive and he brought him back here to report and get him medical attention.”
“Then everything he initially told us was a fabrication?”
The man nodded. “Devised on his drive back. For obvious reasons, he didn’t want to admit that a lone man overpowered him and the others.”
Semenov’s eyes narrowed as he tried to process what he’d heard. Over the course of less than a minute, his entire strategic situation had changed. But what did that mean, exactly?
“What do you want me to do with Lenkov, sir?”
“Put him in the program.”
“I’m not sure there’s enough left—”
“Put him in the program!” Semenov shouted.
The man saluted and beat a retreat to the door. Once closed, Semenov stood and began pacing under the watchful eye of the increasingly distressed girl.
He should have felt relieved that Moscow wasn’t behind recent events, but the sensation was surprisingly muted. Despite a thorough investigation by the FSB, Matthieu Fournier wasn’t who he said he was.Losa had managed to get an operator inside this facility and within inches of him. He remembered how close he’d gotten to the man—a killer who had calmly played the frightened attorney while he waited for an opening. It seemed likely that the only reason he had survived was that Fournier had no hope of escape after carrying out the assassination.
Where was he now? Had he escaped Syria? Or was he still out there with substantial knowledge of the compound’s layout, security measures, and personnel? Was it conceivable that he could organize an attack? There was an endless supply of battle-hardened locals willing to do anything for money. And Fournier had already taken out an astounding number of Semenov’s men. Eight highly trained soldiers, the loss of whom had significantly degraded his security force.
Semenov was in a badly weakened position that he was incapable of improving. A call to Moscow for reinforcements was out of the question. Any display of weakness or incompetence would do nothing but fuel the forces plotting against him. A quiet request for reinforcements from Damascus was equally impossible. The Syrian president was embroiled in trying to control the violence spreading from Saraqib and infuriated by the loss of the Golan Heights.
Semenov looked toward the windows again but saw the same thing as before. The dull glow of the guard towers. The flash of the wire fence. The dark, empty desert beyond. Was it real? Or just what he was supposed to see? Were there forces out there organizing against him? Not only Losa, but the Kremlin itself?
He was too lost in thought to notice the girl’s approach. She startled him when she reached out, causing him to take a step back. Her fingers were damp with sweat when they grazed his cheek, but he felt none of the lust or power that she and the girls before her had so reliably provided. Instead, he felt only impotent rage. For her. For the old men in Moscow. For the country that he’d spent the last two years of his life toiling in.
Semenov swung a hand into her face, but instead of the customaryslap, he balled a fist. She spun and dropped to the floor, bleeding badly from a gash on her cheek. He grabbed her by the hair when she tried to crawl away, dragging her toward the bar. She struggled weakly as he opened a drawer and poured out a bag of captagon pills.
“Is this what you want?” he screamed, forcing her head back and shoving a handful of the white tablets into her mouth. Tears ran down her face and she began to choke, but he didn’t relent, instead keeping his palm clamped over her mouth and using it to slam the back of her head repeatedly into the floor.
CHAPTER 36
IDLIB
SYRIA
AKNOCKsounded on the door, rising above the scrape of the truck bumper Rapp was dragging across the concrete. He’d already had a few visitors, most of whom were just curious and a couple who were looking for minor engine repairs.
This one was different. Three powerful strikes in rapid succession. Two a bit slower. Finally, a long pause that ended with more of a slap. The concept of the secret knock had been around long enough to be adopted by fraternities, immortalized in B spy movies, and described on papyrus. But for good reason. They never failed.
He dropped the bumper on a growing pile of debris in the corner and crossed the space to open the door. Like the men now entombed in the compressor tank, this one was wearing a scarf wrapped around his head, hiding everything but a pair of piercing blue eyes. Unusual in the region, but hardly unheard-of.
“I was on my boat, asshole. Floating around the Med with a fishing pole in one hand and a beer in the other.”
