Brad Thor - The Athena Project

“All right, all right,” Casey conceded. “The Hotel Hysterectomy it is. It better be good, Megs.”

“Frommer’s gives it five rusted Yugos,” replied Rhodes. “With that kind of endorsement, it’s gotta be good.”

The girls laughed and navigated their way to the hotel. At the front desk, they pushed Cooper into charming the manager into an upgrade, and she actually succeeded in doing it. They were given a stunning two-bedroom suite overlooking the ocean.

“This beats the hell out of Tuzla,” commented Megan when they were shown inside.

Cooper wasted no time calling down for beer and Casey drew a bath. Ericsson, ever the news junkie, flipped on the TV and found an English-language cable news station.

Rhodes stepped out onto the balcony and called back inside to Casey, “They’ve got plenty of boat slips here. You should have Scot sail up. I see a nice place near the beach with shallow water and a bunch of sharp rocks where you can drown Riley if you’d like.”

Casey walked over, slid the sliding glass door shut, and locked Megan on the balcony.

She caught Ericsson looking at her. “You want some?” she threatened with a smile.

Ericsson shrugged. “That’s okay,” she said. “I never liked her much anyway.”

“Good,” replied Casey as she walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

Ericsson went ahead and let Megan back in.

“Some people,” said Rhodes as she stepped back inside.

Cooper lay down on the couch and was asleep before her beer even got there. Rhodes, who never seemed to run out of energy, went downstairs to look around while Ericsson stayed in the room and held the fort.

When Megan came back, Cooper had awakened from her nap and Casey was done with her bath. They each pulled a beer from the bucket and shared a toast.

Gretchen was on her second sip when Hutton called. “So much for downtime,” she said as she reached over and picked up her phone from the coffee table.

“The bombs were delivered to a walled compound about twelve kilometers south of you,” said Hutton. “We believe it belongs to Armen Abressian.”

“Do you think the equipment from the Kammler facility could be there too?” she asked.

“That’s what we need you to find out.”

“How’s his security?”

Hutton paused before replying. “Just the little bit we’ve been able to pick up from the satellites, it’s pretty sophisticated-cameras, laser motion detectors, even a dog team working the perimeter. Overall, we estimate that the compound has a twenty- to thirty-man security force that’s heavily armed, probably with paramilitary training.”

“Is that all?” Casey asked. “What happened? Was the moat-diggers union on strike the day they installed their security?”

“Gretchen, listen,” said Hutton. “We figure we could help you get around some of the intrusion measures, but not all of them. Not without more time. But based on all of the activity we’re seeing, we think they’re getting ready to launch those bombs. We need to move on them right away. Tonight.”

“You want us to hit a walled compound with twenty to thirty heavily armed men, dogs, and electronic sensors and do it tonight?” she replied.

“Yes.”

“Even if we had weeks to surveil the place and piece together how we were getting in, we’d still need to come up with one hell of a diversion.”

“Tell your team to get ready,” replied Hutton. “I think we may be able to get you your diversion.”

When Casey and Rhodes arrived at the run-down apartment building, they saw several high-end luxury vehicles already parked in front.

“There’s nothing better than blending in, is there?” asked Megan.

Gretchen shook her head. “Russian mafia. What do you expect?”

Two large men in cheap suits with fake Rolexes took entirely too much time patting the ladies down. “You know, I normally get dinner first,” quipped Rhodes.

Casey had had enough as well. Turning, she gave the man behind her a surprisingly good shove, forcing him back on his heels. “Party’s over. Where’s your boss?”

The men got the message.

Casey and Rhodes stood on the cracked tiles of the foul-smelling lobby as one of the Russians spoke into his radio. When a response came back, he looked at Casey and said, “You upstairs now.”

The women walked up to the fourth floor where two more men, cradling shotguns, were sitting outside an apartment door.

As the ladies approached, the men stood up, walked over to them, and indicated that they would be frisked again.

“Too bad Cooper didn’t come,” Megan whispered. “This is more action than she’s seen all year.”

Gretchen was starting to get angry. “Nyet,” she said, holding up her hand. “This is business. Go get Luka. Now. ”

Whether the men understood English didn’t matter. They definitely understood her tone. One of the Russians stepped back and knocked on the apartment door. There was a grunt from the other side and it was opened. The Russian then stepped back and gestured for the women to enter.

The interior was just as decrepit as the rest of the building. Paint was peeling from the walls and a sour odor pervaded the entire apartment. Neither Casey nor Cooper could tell if it was coming from something that had overstayed its welcome in the fridge or from the twenty-five Russian men crammed into the tiny flat.

The Russians were in various states of undress. Some wore undershirts, some no shirts at all. Many had tattoos, and they were all in exceptional shape. Weapons of all sizes and calibers were scattered around the apartment. There were several metallic briefcases along the wall, which were probably crammed full of cash. Sitting at a table in the kitchen, the ladies were introduced to the man they had come to see, Luka Mikhailov-heir to his uncle Viktor Mikhailov’s crime syndicate.

They shook hands and Mikhailov barked at two of his men to get up from the table so that Casey and Rhodes could sit down.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” said Casey.

Luka was younger than they had expected; somewhere in his late twenties. He appeared more polished than his colleagues and came off as more management than mobster.

“Thank you,” he replied, as he studied his guests. Leaning back in his chair he flipped open the refrigerator door. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No thank you,” said Casey.

Mikhailov allowed the door to swing shut and brought his chair legs back to the floor. “Apparently, we both have powerful people we answer to,” he said.

Gretchen understood what he meant. According to Hutton, Jack Walsh had quietly reached out to some of his colleagues in the Russian intelligence world. Through some subtle pressure, Luka Mikhailov had been persuaded to agree to this meeting.

“We also have a common enemy,” replied Casey. “Armen Abressian.”

The name obviously meant something to the Russian, as the expression on his face instantly changed. It was only a flash, but Casey had caught it.

“Why would you think that Armen Abressian is my enemy?” he asked.

“Because if he had killed my uncle, that’s exactly what he would be to me.”

“How do you know he killed Viktor? Do you have proof?”

Now came the hard part. Everything would depend on how badly Luka Mikhailov wanted to believe the story she was about to tell him. “Shortly before your uncle was killed, the Central Intelligence Agency intercepted a phone call between the men responsible for his murder and a man named Thomas Sanders.”