“I do not order the assassination of women, Colonel,” Gryzlov said, glancing again at Korchkov. He knew the Russian beauty was a highly trained Spetsgruppa Vympel commando, specializing in close-quarters killing . . . intimately close quarters. “But all the rest of McLanahan’s possessions are forfeited to me. Have you located the son?”
“He is making no attempt to hide his whereabouts, sir,” Ilianov said. “He posts regularly to social media—the entire planet knows where he is and what he does. We have so far detected no evidence of security surrounding him.”
“Just because he does not post anything about a security detail on Facebook does not mean it doesn’t exist,” Gryzlov said. “I hope you have picked more reliable men to carry out this task.”
“There is no lack of men willing to carry out these operations, sir,” Ilianov said. “We have selected the best. They are in position now and are ready to strike. My men will make it look like the son killed himself while drinking and freebasing cocaine, and I will be sure that the details are in every newspaper and television show in the world. I will also make it clear that the son got hooked on drugs and alcohol because of his father’s neglect, and that the father had similar dependency and emotional problems.”
“Very good,” Gryzlov said. He took a deep drag of his cigar, using the interlude to look Korchkov up and down again. “Why not send Captain Korchkov?” he asked. “I am sure young McLanahan would wear a nice big smile on his face . . . the instant before his life was snuffed out.” Korchkov remained completely expressionless, her hands folded in front of her body, her legs almost shoulder width apart in a very ready, athletic stance.
“The men I have selected will have no difficulties, sir,” Ilianov said. “Sending the captain back to the United States to get McLanahan would be like using a sledgehammer to crack an egg.”
“Just see to it that it gets done, Colonel,” Gryzlov said. “I have waited long enough to seek my revenge on Patrick McLanahan. I want everything that belonged to him dead and destroyed. All that remains of him is his son and his reputation, and I want both shattered.”
“Yes, sir,” Ilianov said. “I will report on the success of my team tomorrow.”
“It had better be successful, Colonel,” Gryzlov said. “I want the McLanahan name stained beyond repair.” He gave Korchkov another glance, wondering if he should tell her to stay or contact her later, then waved a hand. “You have your orders, Colonel. Carry them out.” Ilianov and Korchkov turned and left without a word.
“This is no business for a president of the Russian Federation, sir,” Tarzarov said after the two had departed.
“Perhaps not, Sergei,” Gryzlov said, his face hard and foreboding through a cloud of cigar smoke, “but it is certainly the business of the son of Anatoliy Gryzlov. Once McLanahan’s son has been eliminated, I can turn full attention to rebuilding our nation and putting it back on the path to greatness. We have been raking in the natural resources money and stuffing it under the mattress for too long, Sergei—it is time to start spending it and taking our rightful place in the world as a true superpower.”
CALIFORNIA POLYTECHNIC UNIVERSITY
SAN LUIS OBISPO, CALIFORNIA
THAT SAME TIME
“How freakin’ cool was that?” exclaimed Bradley McLanahan. He and four other students were in their professor’s office in the Reinhold Aerospace Engineering Building on the sprawling campus of the California Polytechnic University, San Luis Obispo, known simply as Cal Poly, near California’s central coast, watching TV on one of the computers in the office. “The president of the United States is up in orbit on Armstrong Space Station! If he can do it, I sure as hell can!” The other students nodded in agreement.