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CYPRUS
RAPPcrossed the house’s living area with a satphone pressed to his ear. The sliding glass door at the back was open and he stepped out onto a flagstone terrace. The property maintained an ancient agrarian feel, but had been updated with the expected creature comforts. Even more important were the ancient root cellar just beyond the tree line and the fact that there were no neighbors within earshot. Nothing like a mile or so of wooded mountains to absorb screams.
“Charlie was the last,” Irene Kennedy said over the encrypted line. “So everyone’s out of the desert and safe. In a couple of days, they’ll all be out of Syria and on their way home.”
“A couple of days? I thought you said it would take a couple of weeks?”
“That was the initial thinking. We were going to smuggle them over various borders by various methods, but I’ve decided that a better option is to get them out through Israel.”
“Because it worked out so well for me?”
“Ironically, yes. Now that Ben and the prime minister are aware that you survived, they’re anxious to mend fences.”
“Just so long as you make it clear that if any of my guys get so much as a scratch on their way out, I’m going to put my thumbs in their eye sockets.”
“I don’t think that’d be productive. Instead, how about I convey your undying gratitude?”
“Your call,” he said, watching the distant streetlights of Agros flicker to life as the sun dipped behind the horizon. “How’s Ahmed doing?”
“Just fine. The medical team we had on standby repaired the damage and they say he’ll make a full recovery.”
Rapp heard awkward footsteps approaching from behind and a moment later Scott Coleman hobbled by holding a bottle of local beer. Rapp muted the phone.
“Are you going to put the steaks on or what?”
“I’m injured, man.”
While technically true, it hadn’t happened during the operation. The night before, he’d had a few too many post-operation drinks and tripped over the hose Rapp was using to top off the pool.
“Get your ass over to the grill.”
“I have to admit,” Kennedy continued, unaware of the exchange, “that everything went more smoothly than I expected. But we’re not out of the woods yet. The next phase of this is going to have to be handled carefully. There’s going to be a lot of scrutiny from the SVR and every other intelligence agency in the world. Not to mention the media.”
“I’m less worried about that than I am Damian Losa. He’s not going to be happy about what we’re planning.”
“Agreed. It’s a problem I’ve been working on since I first got the call from you. Give me a few more days and I think I’ll be able to offer a solution.”
Rapp penetrated the trees via a dirt footpath, finally descending a set of steps cut into the earth. The door he came to was constructed of thick hardwood, but had taken a beating from more than a century of local weather. Deep cracks ran vertically along the grain, and the iron hardware that kept it in place was half rusted through.
Rapp removed an incongruously modern padlock and passed into an oppressive room about eight feet square. Walls were constructed of haphazardly stacked stone that had turned black with mold. The floor was nothing but damp soil, scattered with a few farm-related relics and an impressive number of rodent carcasses. The ceiling was in about the same condition as the door, held up by rotting beams and slung with a wire connected to a single bare bulb.
Rapp had considered leaving it turned off, but as soul crushing as darkness could be, this place was even more depressing in the light. And now that the overwhelming smell of mildew had combined with the stench of urine and excrement, it was enough to make even Rapp’s stomach roll over.
Aleksandr Semenov, the source of that new layer of stink, was looking far less fastidious than normal. Instead of a crisp uniform covered in unearned medals, he was sitting naked in his own filth. The dust caked to his pale skin was streaked with sweat and what may have been a few tears. A gash on his leg looked like it was getting infected and if left untreated would add the stench of rotting flesh to the current bouquet.
A CamelBak with water and nutrients hung from the rafter above him, with the hose dangling within reach of his mouth. It was half-empty, suggesting that the Russian wasn’t willing to give up yet. He wanted to survive.
“Wake up, Alek.”
His eyes fluttered to take in the man standing in front of him.
Rapp was freshly showered and shaved, wearing a pair of pressed khakis, a green polo shirt, and a new Rolex Submariner. Not his normal look, but to some extent he was still playing the Canadian lawyer.As an added benefit, the careful grooming would deepen the contrast between their current circumstances.
“Who are you?” Semenov managed to get out. “Who are you really?”
“Damian Losa’s negotiator,” Rapp said. Not really the truth, but also not a lie. For now, this was nothing more than a business dispute between two criminal organizations—the one known as the Losa Cartel and the other known as the Russian government.
“A negotiator,” Semenov repeated weakly.
