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“That’s easier said than done, Mitch. Our relationship with Pakistani army command isn’t exactly warm and those two are on the brink of taking opposite sides in a civil war.”
“Contact General Shirani and tell him I’m on my way back with the nuke. Tell him that if he’s not there when I land, I’m going to hand it over to Chutani in front of a bunch of television cameras. And I’m going to use those cameras to tell the Pakistani people how their president forced the Great Satan to return their weapon while the army sat around with its thumb up its ass.”
Kennedy considered that for a moment. “It might just work. Shirani’s trying to portray himself as a strong leader who can strike fear into the hearts of Pakistan’s enemies. Your narrative could cut his legs out from under him.”
Rapp downed the rest of his Coke. “Joe and I are going to head back to Virginia and get that nuke in the air. Let’s talk later about how and where to deliver it.”
“Not so fast, Mitch. I’m meeting with President Alexander in an hour and he wants you there.”
Rapp shook his head and started for the hallway. “Meetings are your job, Irene. Tell him I’ll see him when I get back.”
CHAPTER 26
NEAR DOMINICAL
COSTA RICA
GRISHA Azarov leapt over a rotting log and immediately ducked beneath a branch arcing down from his right. It would have been easier to drop and roll, but that maneuver would cost him time. In his experience, almost three quarters of a second.
He entered a clearing and increased his speed, taking the steepest line up a dirt slope, staying low to minimize his profile. While he doubted there was anyone hiding in the dense foliage on either side of him, it had happened before.
His thighs felt like they were on fire but his lungs and heart were handling the workload with an ease that surprised even him. A carefully administered drug regimen increased his blood’s ability to carry oxygen to his muscles, but today that had been supplemented with an inhaled substance that he knew nothing about. He’d expected the performance improvement to be subtle as it had been in the past when his pharmaceutical cocktail was adjusted. It was anything but.
Azarov maintained his momentum through to the top of the hill and found himself on the top of a butte that jutted from the jungle. To his right, he could see the ocean in the distance and at his ten o’clock was a stucco-and-glass building that encompasses a little more than two hundred square meters. Next to it, a man in his late sixties was standing behind a table with a laptop computer on it.
Azarov pulled two custom pistols from their shoulder holsters as the man dodged right and grabbed a long steel pole. He swung it toward Azarov just as the Russian came to a stop and took aim at a paper target five meters away. On the end of the pole was a life-size silhouette constructed of aluminum to make hits clearly audible.
The man used it to try to interfere with Azarov’s aim as he fired both weapons at the target. When he was empty, he dropped one of the pistols and reloaded the other while moving left. When the magazine clicked home, he went into a two-handed stance and emptied the weapon into a target set up thirty meters to the east.
The older man dropped the pole and retreated to his laptop, squinting at the screen through the glare of the Costa Rican sun. “How did you feel?”
Linus Heis’s clipped German accent was no different than it had been the first time they’d met—when Azarov was a seven-year-old biathlete with dreams of making the Soviet Olympic team. It had been Heis who had found the slight heart murmur that disqualified Azarov and changed the course of his life. In subsequent years, the murmur had proved to be completely irrelevant and the scientist was still defensive about what may have been the only mistake he’d ever made in the field of human performance.
“I felt good. My heart rate seemed lower than normal at the top of the climb.”
“Fourteen percent lower,” Heis agreed. The approving expression was unusual for the stoic German. “And that translated into steadier hands. Your accuracy was one hundred percent.”
“What about my speed?”
The man’s barely perceptible smile disappeared. “You beat your personal best by two percent.”
“Two percent? Impressive.”
Heis shook his head. “It should have been three point six. Did something go wrong? Did you stumble on the way up?”
Azarov considered lying. There was nothing that infuriated Heis more than when one of his arcane calculations failed to predict reality. The purpose of this exercise wasn’t to make the old man happy, though.
“No. Nothing.”
“You should have been faster,” he repeated.
“I’m sure you’ll find the problem and correct it, Linus. You always do.”
The German folded his arms in front of his narrow chest. “I’m not so sure. Your shooting is excellent but your running is suboptimal. It occurs to me that firing a weapon is easy while running is hard. I wonder if the problem isn’t physical. If it’s mental.”
“I’ve taken more psychological tests than I can count, Linus. And I’ve been involved in more operations than I can count. There’s never been even a hint of weakness. You know this.”
“Things change, Grisha. People change. You’re not as young as you once were. We all slip eventually. But I admit that my concern may be premature. It’s three degrees warmer than when you set your prior personal best, and despite living in this godforsaken jungle furnace, you’ve never dealt well with heat. Or perhaps you’re just not fully focused. It would be understandable after what happened to Olga.”