Vince Flynn - Order to Kill

Rapp glanced up at Claudia. “Is that a serious offer?”

“Of course it is.”

He turned the phone and showed her the text. “I’m finishing up building a house outside D.C. and this woman’s driving me crazy. I’m going to set up a meeting between the two of you for tomorrow. After that, the only thing I ever want to hear on this subject is that the key’s waiting for me under the mat.”

ISLAMABAD

PAKISTAN

GRISHA Azarov strode purposefully across the lobby of the Islamabad Marriott. It was after midnight, so it was virtually empty. A haggard-looking English couple was giving instructions to a bellboy in the corner and an attractive young woman was manning the reception desk. In his peripheral vision, he spotted a man coming through the door behind her but immediately registered him as benign. The hotel manager.

“It’s nice to have you back, sir.”

Azarov nodded politely, but didn’t stop. He suspected that the man had stayed this late solely to provide that greeting and to make certain that the details relating to Azarov’s arrival had been attended to.

As expected, the elevator was empty and he inserted the key for the top floor. As was customary, the hotel’s most luxurious suite had been rented for him in the name of the Russian energy consulting firm he was the president of. The company had been bankrolled by Maxim Krupin with the help of the oligarchs who now made up a significant portion of his client list.

It was a cover that allowed him to take in enormous amounts of money with little scrutiny, travel to dangerous parts of the world without raising suspicion, and meet with wealthy, powerful men unnoticed. After more than a decade in business, the cover operation had become, for all intents and purposes, real. He had hired top talent in the areas of economics and geology, expanded his clientele to include such corporations as Exxon, BP, and Aramco, and gained enough expertise in the field to hold his own in a roomful of petroleum engineers.

Azarov exited the elevator and opened the door to his suite with the card key he’d been sent. The main room didn’t feel much different than the lobby-an ornate mix of figured marble, rich wood, and expensive rugs.

The floor at the center was sunken and contained a conversation pit consisting of chairs and sofas surrounding a glass coffee table. A lone man rose from the chair farthest from the door, bowing slightly in greeting.

Marius Postan was fifty-one, balding, and wearing an expensive but ill-fitting suit that hinted at constant fluctuations in weight. He was another of Krupin’s extra-governmental “advisors” and had been in the employ of the Russian president even longer than Azarov himself had. His sphere of influence was more the technical side.

“It’s my understanding that you have information for me?” Azarov said, walking to the bar. A bottle of Blanton’s Gold Edition was waiting for him along with an elaborate arrangement of fresh flowers and a personal note from the manager.

“I think you’ll want a clear head for our conversation,” Postan said.

“On the contrary, Marius. I find our time together much more palatable with a bourbon in my hand.”

While Azarov had been warned that the man would be waiting for him, he hadn’t been told what they were to discuss. Not that it was difficult to guess. When Postan showed up in person, it meant that there was news too sensitive to transmit even over heavily encrypted lines.

“Can I assume that you’re here to discuss the upcoming Rapp operation?”

Postan nodded and Azarov decided to exercise a bit of curiosity. “Before we start, Marius, why don’t you tell me what happened in South Africa?”

The man’s eyes flitted nervously around the expansive room. He had been responsible for planning the operation, under the watchful eye of Maxim Krupin. The problem was that while Krupin tended to take full credit for success, he was just as quick to distance himself from failure.

“Ilya Gusev was killed along with the two Iraqi men he’d been assigned. An independent contractor who goes by the name Kent Black has disappeared. I’ve not yet been able to determine what happened in any detail.”

“I see,” Azarov said, taking a seat on one of the sofas and spreading his arms across the back. “Would you like to know?”

Postan remained standing, staring down at him. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a simple question. Would you like to know what happened?”

“I don’t see what-”

Azarov held up a hand, silencing the man. “Kent Black’s real name is Steve Thompson. Early in his career as an independent, he worked on an operation in Nicaragua. Louis Gould was representing a competing interest. Thompson would have researched him enough to recognize his former wife and to know that Mitch Rapp has at least a peripheral relationship with her. Thompson is neither stupid nor suicidal, so I think we can assume that he contacted Rapp to make sure the move against Claudia Gould wouldn’t be something that would bring about CIA retaliation.”

Postan’s eyes widened. “Have you spoken to Krupin of this?”

Azarov shook his head. “This is the first I’ve heard of Thompson’s involvement.”

“Then what you’re saying is nothing more than speculation.”

Azarov didn’t answer, instead sipping his drink and appraising the man. As much as he disliked Postan, he couldn’t help feeling a hint of sympathy. These kinds of operations were outside his area of expertise. Azarov himself should have been consulted but the president’s damnable obsession with secrecy had prevented it. And now they found themselves in a very dangerous-and entirely self-inflicted-situation.

“Yes,” Azarov said, uninterested in arguing. “Just speculation.” He held out a hand. “You have something for me?”

Postan fished a flash drive from his pocket and handed it over.

“The plans for taking Rapp in Faisalabad are all on here?”

“Yes. He’ll be arriving in Pakistan soon. Our operations have been going much more smoothly since he’s been gone and there’s a possibility that we’ll have to suspend them if you don’t-”

Azarov held up a hand, once again silencing the man. “If everything is on here as you say, there’s no need for explanation.”

Postan’s nervousness suddenly turned to anger. He was wealthy, powerful, and unaccustomed to being spoken to with anything but deference. Moreover, he was a vindictive, control-obsessed man prone to flying into sudden rages. By all reports, both his staff and family were terrified of him.

“You think you’re above all this, don’t you, Grisha? That Krupin thinks of you as some kind of son. I assure you that he does not. Do you believe you can do for him what I can? The shell corporations, the money laundering, the constant adjustments that have to be made to keep up with technology and international law? You’re just a killer, Grisha. The most common of men…”

Postan continued his diatribe, but Azarov had stopped listening. He rose from the sofa and walked behind the wet bar at the back of the room. Crouching as though looking for ice, he pulled a custom-built pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his left arm.

“Are you hearing me, Grisha? Are you even capable of understanding what I’m saying?”

Azarov stood and smiled politely. “I’m doing my best. Please continue.”

He turned on the faucet and used it to fill the gun’s integrated silencer with water. Despite the opulence of the room, the walls were a bit thin. The first shot from a suppressed weapon tended to be somewhat loud and wetting it would reduce the effect.

Azarov hadn’t been paying attention to Postan’s words but the sudden silence when he raised the weapon was still welcome. The man froze for a moment and then bolted for the door. Azarov tracked him over elevated sights, waiting until he was off the rug and over the easier-to-clean marble before firing.