Russell Blake - Jet

“So they can kill her.”

David closed his eyes, exhausted.

“I can only think of one group, one man, who is Russian and would want you dead that badly. But then why eliminate everyone on the team? That’s the puzzle.”

“Who, David? Who are you thinking?”

“Mikhail Grigenko. He’s a Russian oligarch. Worth billions. He’s basically synonymous with the Russian oil industry, as well as the Russian mob. But he’d have no way of knowing about the team, much less want to have them executed. I could see how he would want you and me, but not everyone…”

“I don’t understand. Why would this Grigenko want to have me executed? What did I ever do to him? I’ve never operated in Russia except for that extraction — the diplomat we rescued from the extremists. What would the mob or some oil billionaire want with me, and why go to these lengths to find me once I was dead? None of it makes any sense.”

“You never know everything about the operations, of course. In this case, one mission in particular is germane and explains everything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but you had no need to know.”

She took his hand. His palm was sweating — he needed to rest if he was going to heal. She held her fingers against his brow. At least he wasn’t feverish.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

“The Chechnya sanction. The man you executed at the villa outside of Grozny.”

“The file said he was involved in securing weapons of mass destruction for Al Qaeda. Suitcase nukes and bio weapons, if I recall.”

“That was true. He was. The sanction was approved at the highest levels of the government. There was no mistake…”

David wasn’t telling her everything. He probably never did, knowing him. It was part of the way he was. Compartmentalize. Segregate. Need to know.

She prodded him for the unsaid portion of the story. “And?”

“He was also Grigenko’s twin brother.”

A Falcon 7 sat near the private jet terminal of Vnukovo 3 airport — more a small office with a waiting area than anything remotely resembling a true terminal. Eight hardened men sat in silence, waiting for the baggage to be loaded, their chiseled faces stony, veterans of the elite Spetsnaz GRU, now part of a private army of specialist mercenaries.

Light snow floated from the gray sky, the sinking sun having failed to warm Moscow that day. A stretch Mercedes limousine pulled to the curb outside the building, and a trim man in an expensive hand-tailored suit got out, the driver holding an umbrella over his head as he opened the door for the passenger.

The pair made their way to the twin glass doors of the waiting area, and then Yuri entered, the driver returning to the vehicle.

Yuri clapped his hands together to fend off the chill, brushed a few errant snowflakes from his shoulders, then walked to the front of the waiting area and looked at the men.

“Gentlemen. You will take off in fifteen minutes, stopping once to refuel in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Preparations have already been made for your arrival in Belize. Weapons have been sourced locally — there is no shortage of guns in Central America, so everything is ready. The temperature is ninety degrees with seventy percent humidity, so you’ll get a chance to vacation in the tropics on this one. Remember the rules. No fraternization with the local population, everyone stays in the camp unless specifically authorized to leave, and no conflicts of any sort. I want you in and out as quickly as we can manage this. You’ve been briefed. Are there any questions?”

The men sat silent, without moving a muscle. The leader shook his head.

“Good. I don’t need to belabor how important this operation is. You are the best of the best. Each one of you has been handpicked for this duty. Pay is double your usual rate. Feel free to eat and drink as much as you like on the flight, but once on the ground, you will remain dry until we are through. Pavel?” Yuri looked to the leader.

“All right. You heard the man. Time to mount up.”

The fighters stood, each reaching down and hoisting a small black duffle bag with a week’s worth of clothes in it. The flight wasn’t going to transport any weapons — they didn’t want to risk a search. The leader nodded, the door to the tarmac opened, and the group filed out, trotting to the plane once out in the cold night air.

“Call me when you’re on the ground. I’ll be right behind you with the second group,” Yuri said to Pavel, then shook his hand.

Pavel nodded and rubbed the scar on his neck, a souvenir from Afghanistan, pulsing red even after all these years.

Yuri watched the men climb the fuselage stairs and enter the private jet. A few minutes later, it began rolling to the runway, the snow having been cleared recently by an unlucky snowplow. It slowly taxied to the far end of the tarmac and sat awaiting takeoff clearance.

An explosion of sleet blasted from behind the plane as the jets ignited, then it was hurtling down the strip, lifting into the ominous sky before it had traveled three quarters of the length. Streaks of white vapor trailed from its wings as it pulled confidently upward, its lights blinking as it disappeared into the overcast.

Yuri pulled an encrypted cell phone from his pocket and placed a call. Grigenko answered on the second ring.

“The first group is en route, sir.”

“Very good. Any update on the other matter?” Grigenko asked.

“Our contacts in Israeli intelligence are turning over rocks, but so far there’s nothing new to report. He hasn’t shown up in any healthcare facilities. You know…he might just be dead,” Yuri offered. “He was badly wounded according to the survivors.”

“I don’t believe we got off that light. He’s still alive, and he’s out there. I feel it in my bones,” Grigenko snapped.

“We are proceeding with the assumption that he is still alive. I have four more men on the ground now in Israel, so we will be ready within a matter of minutes from when he turns up.”

“And the woman?”

“That is a bigger problem, although it has no impact on our operation. She has dropped off the radar. If she is still on the island, she’s living in a cave or has successfully evaded not only our men, but the police. I think it is probably diminishing returns to keep that hunt active. I would suggest we keep her on our watch list and wait for her to surface, if she ever does.”

“Yuri. I thought I was clear. Put whatever resources on this you have to, but I want her. No giving up. I don’t care about the expense or how long it takes. I want specialists whose only reason for living is to find her. She is not going to get away again.”

Yuri considered possible responses. He could argue with his client about the number of people on the planet, and the tiny fraction of a chance they would ever pick up her trail at this point — a highly skilled operative, alerted that she was being pursued, who could literally go anywhere in the world to hide. He could argue, or try to convince Grigenko that the odds of getting her now were less than being struck by lightning — twice. Or he could continue to spend the oligarch’s money, a few million dollars a year, on maintaining an active search, pocketing forty percent of the take as profit.

“Of course, sir. I have my best people on it. It will just be a matter of time. Whatever is required, we will do it.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The line went dead, and Yuri smiled, his features taking on a reptilian cast from the unfamiliar expression.

Jet spent the morning trying to get into the Mossad’s network using David’s information as the gateway. His password still worked so it wasn’t as difficult as trying to get in cold. She’d found his security clearance adequate to move beyond his immediate operations, but not sufficient to access everything she was after.