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“It’s of no importance,” Mustafa said, squinting perceptibly as he examined Rapp’s shattered nose. “Your face . . .”
“The bitch attacked me,” Rapp said, pointing to the broken lamp lying on the floor.
Mustafa translated and his two bodyguards laughed condescendingly.
“Are you aware of what happened at our training camp?”
“No. Is there a problem?”
“It was attacked early this morning.”
“Attacked? By who?”
“It appears that two men killed the perimeter guard and gained entry by saying that I had sent them.”
“Have you captured them?”
“Not yet. But I swear to God I will. And when I do, I will make them suffer in ways they’ve never even imagined.”
“How many of our people were hurt? Do you still have enough men to carry out your plans?”
This was where things got tricky—and why Rapp hadn’t killed every last one of those pedophile sons of bitches. If he’d completely wiped out Mustafa’s team, the general might move on to some kind of half-assed plan B. The fissile material could be split up and disappear into the hands of multiple groups, all with their own capabilities and objectives. The goal had been to take out enough men to once again make Eric Jesem’s involvement desirable, but not so many as to make Mustafa’s op nonviable.
“Are you all right?” the general said, ignoring Rapp’s question. “Are the wounds that whore gave you serious?”
“I can’t breathe through my nose but otherwise I’m nearly healed.”
Mustafa nodded thoughtfully. “We still have enough men for the primary teams. I’m reinstating you to a position on the backup.”
“Sir, really. I feel fine. I can—”
“You will follow my orders!” Mustafa, said, obviously in no mood to argue after the events of that morning. Rapp wondered what pissed the man off more—the deaths of his men or the fact that his underage livestock had scattered.
“Of course, sir. I’ll follow your instructions to the letter.”
Mustafa gave a short nod and pointed at Laleh, who was still motionless with her hands tied to the headboard. “Enjoy yourself. You leave for Saudi Arabia with the others tonight.”
CHAPTER 44
PERSIAN GULF
OFF THE COAST OF SAUDI ARABIA
GRISHA Azarov watched two men climb down the dhow’s cargo net and slip silently into the water. Instead of immediately following, he remained on deck, staring out over the water. As had been predicted by Krupin’s forecasters, the region was enjoying a brief respite from the wind before it returned with the sunrise now only a few hours away. Free from the suffocating heat of the vessel’s hold, Azarov breathed in the salt air and examined the outline of an empty shore.
There were no lights visible other than the vague urban glow of Dammam, sixty kilometers to the south. A slightly shorter distance to the north was Al-Jubail, the city this vessel would soon set sail for in order to unload its legitimate cargo. Until then, the captain stood near the bow, looking nervously to the horizon.
Azarov finally put on a well-used dive mask and followed the men into the water. Even rudimentary scuba gear had been impossible to bring. It would have been discovered by the Coast Guard boarding party and might have raised suspicions.
He dipped beneath the swells and kicked toward the two similarly equipped men working beneath the hull. A single glow stick cast a green haze over their effort to open the container attached near the keel. They worked with impressive efficiency, something Krupin had assured him would be the case. Both men had trained on an exact replica of the dhow’s hull submerged in a Russian lake.
Azarov surfaced, turning again toward shore. His mask fogged and he lifted it, making out the shadow of a small fishing boat approaching from the west. As instructed, it was equipped with an electric motor that made far less noise than a conventional outboard.
Something bobbed to the surface to his right and he glanced briefly at what would be the first of six black balloons. The men in the fishing boat were equipped with night-vision gear, making it a simple matter for them to intercept.
Azarov maintained his distance, watching them pull the crate dangling beneath the waves onto their craft. Once safely aboard, a knife was used to deflate the balloon and send it to the bottom of the Gulf. This process continued for another ten minutes. A float would splash to the surface, the men would collect the attached crate, and then the evidence would disappear. When t
he last crate had been retrieved, Azarov pulled himself over the side of the small vessel.